


Harry Potter and the Shadow Hunters

by Chris_Quinton, Kymrukatz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 17:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20450933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kymrukatz/pseuds/Kymrukatz
Summary: Anything can happen in a quidditch match. At least, that's the usual saying, and as a rule, it's almost correct when applied to one of Hogwart's. This particular match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw one Saturday afternoon in June, started out normally enough, if normal is the right word. But a body tumbling from the clouds did not come under that heading, especially since the body in question was not one of the players.





	1. Cursed from the Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Order Of The Phoenix - but we've played a bit fast and loose with the canon. Sirius is still dead, Lucius Malfoy managed to escape from his debacle at the Ministry of Magic, and the Half Blood Prince didn't happen. Yet.
> 
> For the purposes of this story, Los Angeles Police Department has become the California Department of Magic, and David Vastarnyi and Jonathan Dexter are not Detectives, but Vigiles - Shadow Hunters.
> 
> Please note - this work is complete at 16 chapters.

Anything can happen in a quidditch match. At least, that's the usual saying, and as a rule, it's almost correct when applied to one of Hogwart's. This particular match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw one Saturday afternoon in June, started out normally enough, if normal is the right word. But a body tumbling from the clouds did not come under that heading, especially since the body in question was not one of the players.

Spells from Dumbledore and Snape hit it almost simultaneously, slowing its precipitous descent, but its impact with the ground could be heard all over the stands. It didn't need Madam Hooch's whistle to end the game.

###

The broken, bleeding body of the stranger, wrapped in Snape's voluminous cloak, was levitated to the hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey's care, while Professors McGonagall and Flitwick watched the skies, wands ready, forming an escort for Hagrid as he led the students back into the safety of the castle.

Snape stayed beside the Headmaster, eyes raking the fringes of the distant Forbidden Forest, and the first drops of rain began to fall. Dumbledore sighed, gazing sadly at the bloody sand.

"Severus," he said quietly, "I think we'll be needing to exercise a great deal of caution. That young man was dressed most strangely." This, coming from a wizard whose robes usually displayed the eclectic taste of a colour-blind house elf, won a snort from Professor Snape.

"His clothing is unimportant," the Potions Master said, a hint of impatience in his voice. "Personally, I'm more interested in knowing if he has company. His injuries owe more to a curse than his fall, and the one who cast it won't be far away."

"Indeed." Dumbledore sighed again. "Search his clothes thoroughly, Severus, but first inspect his arm for the Dark Mark."

"Yes, Headmaster."

"Also, the rabid curiosity that will be rampant throughout the school will have to be satisfied. I believe it will be a good idea if he is declared - dead."

"Agreed, sir. I'll see to it."

###

There was no Dark Mark on the man's left forearm, nor any tattoo or brand anywhere on him. There were some scars, old, not so old, and open wounds that might add to the count - if he lived.

While Madam Pomfrey worked her magic, Severus Snape retired to her office and turned his attention to the discarded clothes. He sorted through the green linen shirt, a mismatched pair of blue socks, the rather expensive dragonhide boots, the dark brown leather jerkin and matching pair of leather pants, an expression of distaste thinning his already thin mouth. He used his wand to empty the pockets and his distaste became mild revulsion as a pile of assorted dross spread itself over the desk: several handkerchiefs caked with blood and what looked to be dirty oil, a battered self-inking quill, a dog-eared notebook half-filled with an indecipherable scrawl, a couple of sea shells, some pebbles with holes in them, a stub of a muggle pencil, three bottle tops advertising Old Homestead Butterbeer, a small suede drawstring pouch that contained yellow pollen - one of Snape's eyebrows twitched up - and a wand. Not from Ollivander's, the hilt was differently shaped, but it was a silk-smooth ten inches of hickory.

Finally Snape returned to the ward and fixed his attention on the man himself. He was of average height, compact of build with no spare flesh on his frame. His darkly unshaven face was young, late twenties, perhaps, some ten years younger than Snape himself. Wildly tangled dark hair framed a face that might be handsome under the blood and mud and bruises that marred it. "Will he live?" he asked.

"Probably," the medi-witch said distractedly.

"Good. We'll have questions for him as soon as he's strong enough to Rennervate." He returned to the miscellany of things on the desk, regarded them thoughtfully, and produced his wand. “Finite incantatem,” he murmured. Nothing happened, but he sensed a magical aura. “Finite incantatem.” And again – and now one of the bottle tops was a gold and enamel badge.

###

"Well, I think it's a bloody outrage!" Ron snapped, "stopping the bloody match just like that! We could have carried on once he'd been taken off the pitch!"

Cutting off the memory of another body falling – Sirius – and a curtained arch, Harry opened his mouth to agree, then stopped. "Um," he said cautiously, "what if he's an Auror, shot down by Death Eaters? If so, there might be more of them hanging around."

"Exactly," Hermione cut in on Ron's derisive hoot. "Or he might be a Death Eater himself. I wouldn't be surprised if our Hogsmeade passes are cancelled for the rest if the weekend."

"No!" Ron protested. "They wouldn't! Would they?" he added plaintively, turning to Harry. Who shrugged.

"Maybe," he said. "So we should get out of our quidditch kit and head for Hogsmeade before they think of it."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Hermione made a grab for Ron's arm, but he was too fast for her, taking off with a yodelling war-cry. Scowling, she watched them sprinting towards the changing rooms at the head of a pack. Clearly, they weren't the only ones to suspect an imminent ban. "Oh, well," she muttered to herself. "If you can't beat them..." and she joined the herd of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws strolling as swiftly and casually as they could for the main gates.

By the time Harry and Ron dashed into the Three Broomsticks, Hermione was halfway through her butterbeer.

###

Jon Dexter wasn't a complete stranger to Britain. Certain of his ancestors on both sides of his family had come from Scotland, and he'd grown up with stories of the country, so some of the names in the village of Hogsmeade were familiar. Not that he was in the mood for sightseeing.

Tired, aching and more than a little hungry, he entered the haven of the Three Broomsticks. It was late afternoon and the inn wasn't busy, which was probably why the barmaid was there waiting to serve him before he'd even reached the bar. He pushed away the heavy sweep of pale blond hair that wouldn't stay back from his forehead without a charm to keep it in place, and summoned a smile for her.

"Could I see the menu, please?" he asked. She handed it to him with a smile of her own and an assessing glance. Dexter managed to put a little more warmth into his expression. He knew he didn't quite fit in with the usual clientele of the place: although his long coat and leather trousers had been transfigured into the cloak and robes that British wizards normally wore, his accent would be enough to label him a foreigner. He was tall as well, a couple of inches over six feet, and lean, and unless he used disguising charms, people tended to remember him. But that was the least of his worries.

Vas wasn't in sight, but he didn't really expect him to be. Comanche, Vas' Harris' hawk, had brought a scant two-line message - 'they're heading into the Forbidden Forest - will follow - wait at the 3 Broomsticks', and was now up in the roof-ridge of the inn with Circe, his own goshawk. And now there was a niggling unease growing in him. The instinct that rarely let him down suddenly started telling him that his partner and blood-brother was - once again - teetering on the edge of some very deep shit. The Forbidden Forest covered a very large area, though that wouldn't hamper him once he picked up Vas' magic trail. Dexter would have gone after him then and there, but for the fact that Comanche was happy enough to stay around. That was reassuring, up to a point. Shadow Hunter teams and their hawks were linked in a four way weave by magic and consent: if he hadn't heard from Vas by nightfall, he'd follow that invisible thread to his partner.

Gritting his teeth on his impatience, Dexter looked through the folded parchment and opted for a game pie and a pint of butterbeer, then took his drink over to a corner seat to wait for his meal. It arrived very quickly. Magic had plenty of practical uses.

While he was eating, Dexter listened with preternaturally sharp ears. The inn had suddenly grown busier, and the place was hip-deep in school-kids, most in muggle-style clothes, a few in more formal black robes bearing the Hogwart's crest. There was one topic of conversation: the man who'd fallen from the clouds and had been carried to the school's infirmary more dead than alive. Speculation was rife. So, too, were the complaints. The poor bastard had been inconsiderate enough to have caused the abandoning of an apparently very important quidditch match before a goal had been scored.

Dexter's gut clenched, and his meal was suddenly sticking in his throat. There was a sickening possibility that it might be his partner. The chance that it was one of the Dragon Circle thugs was equally disturbing. Even injured, a Dragoneer could cause a lot of harm to unsuspecting kids and their teachers.

Then a small blond teenager burst into the inn. "He's dead!" he yelled excitedly. "Nick just told us - bone-breaker curse - and Professor McGonagall confiscated my camera!"

Dexter didn't wait to hear more. His first instinct was to charge out of the inn and storm the school. But commonsense won and instead he walked calmly to the bar and booked a room for the night. The landlady escorted him up the twisting stairs herself, keeping up a happy flirtatious chatter. He responded automatically, his thoughts focused on the more important matter: was it Vas or a Dragoneer? There was only one way to find out, and since it was Hogwarts and he remembered that his grandfather claimed the place had a certain reputation, he was prepared to take a chance.

Once the landlady had left him, he dropped his broomstick and backpack on the bed and opened the window wide. Almost immediately, Circe and Comanche were there, filling the frame with their wings. Quickly he wrote the message and fastened it to Circe's leg.

"Find Albus Dumbledore," he told her, "the Headmaster at Hogwarts."


	2. Unexpected Visitors

His first impression was that he didn’t hurt. Or at least, not as much as he had. When the curse hit – and it had to be the classic bone-breaker, nothing else could cause such catastrophic damage – the pain had been so intense, so overwhelming that he had nearly blacked-out. But some instinct had kept his shattered hands clamped to the handle of his Nimbus, had kept him astride and aloft until he was clear of the forest below and over open ground. Another moment and he could maybe have attempted a landing, but something came soaring towards him at shocking speed, and the impact had finished what the curse had begun.

He opened his eyes on the kind of ceiling he’d seen before in chapels and chapterhouses; corbels and cornices and roof-bosses in stone. Lamplight was filtered through the screen around his bed, and there was a low murmur of voices beyond the screens. He couldn’t make out the words.

Well, one thing was sure. The enemy wouldn’t have rescued him, healed him, and tucked him up in a comfortable bed. Couldn’t be Muggles, either – their medical technology wasn’t that far advanced that they could repair a body in which every bone had been thoroughly broken. Or not in less than a space of months. So he was in the care of wizards.

_Good deduction, Vastarnyi. You should be a detective. Ha._

He tried to recall the topography of the land he'd been reconnoitring, and found it difficult. His head seemed to be stuffed with shards of hot metal, and memories were decidedly hazy. Mountains, the forest, a considerable body of water - a castle. Hadn't planned to go anywhere near the castle...And then there were the bastards he was shadowing.

Shit. JD was going to kill him.

“’The best laid plans of mice and men…’” he murmured, flexing and stretching his repaired hands – and a motherly-type face appeared in a gap between the screens, framed by grey hair under a nurse’s headgear. She gave a professional, put-the-patient-at-ease smile and turned her head.

“Professor? He’s awake.”

The new face was anything but motherly. Lank black hair framed  
unprepossessing sallow features dominated by a large aquiline nose. Eyes like polished obsidian, and just as readable, studied him with the detached interest that might be given to an unusual insect. But the man's voice was pleasantly mellifluous. "I am Severus Snape, and you are currently in the infirmary of Hogwarts School for Wizards & Witches. Your name, sir?"

Briefly Vas considered masquerading as a muggle. But only briefly. He knew what a dose of veritaserum would do. And what it tasted like.

“David Vastarnyi,” he said. “What hit me?”

“Besides the curse?” Was that a smile writhing on the thinned lips?

“Oh. You know about that?”

“Nothing else would have broken so many bones. Not even a badly-hit Bludger – which, I am afraid, was what demolished your broom, and dropped you onto our pitch in the middle of what had promised to be a very keenly fought game.”

“Professor…” The motherly type was back, bustling in the way that is universally the way of nurses.

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey. Of course.” He backed off.

She straightened the already-perfectly-aligned sheet. “Just going to make you a bit more comfortable, my dear.” She produced a rowan-wood wand twined with silver snakes, and murmured the Rennervating Charm. It worked – well, like a charm, easing the aches and sore places and relaxing over-strained muscles. “That’s better. Now, I’ll fetch you a nice drink and you take things easy for a while.”

Professor Snape took a seat beside the bed and crossed his legs in the manner of one who intended to stick around. “Perhaps, Mr. Vastarnyi, you feel up to answering a few questions?”

There didn’t seem any point to refusing. “Sure.”

“What were you doing here?”

Straight to the point. “Tourism?” Vas said hopefully. Madam Pomfrey helped him sit up against his pillows and steadied his hands around a silver goblet. It held pumpkin juice. Vas had been hoping for maybe butterbeer, or something stronger, but gave a small shrug of acceptance.

“Oh, hardly,” Snape produced that almost-smile again. “The hire-companies rarely rent out brooms of Nimbus 2000 quality. And perhaps you can explain this.” He held out a hand – on the palm was the gold-and-enamel of his CDM badge.

“Shit,” said Vastarnyi.

###

Fawkes gave a startled trill, and Dumbledore glanced up from the scroll on his lap. He glanced over his shoulder to follow the line of the phoenix' gaze, and saw a hawk's silhouette flaring broad wings outside his window. There was the unmistakable shape of a message fastened to one of the bird's legs.

"Well," he said quietly, "that's not a sight we see every day. “ He got to his feet and walked slowly to the window. The raptor was a goshawk, watching him approach with its head on one side, eyes a startling ruby in the afternoon light. Dumbledore opened the window and held out his arm.

His visitor hopped onto the offered perch, and stood patiently while the message was unfastened. Then she flew to the back of Dumbledore's chair and folded her wings.

'_Headmaster,_

_I need to discuss today's postponement of the quidditch match. My grandfather, Alkibiades Grant, would recommend me to you, as would my great-grandfather, Sheridan Dexter._

_Please send your reply with Circe. I am currently staying at the Three Broomsticks, but will meet with you anywhere you choose, under whatever conditions you may wish to impose._

_Jonathan Aurelian Dexter'_

"Good heavens." A slow, reminiscent smile grew on Dumbledore's face, half-hidden by his flowing beard. "Sheridan Dexter."

"Who?" Phineas Nigellus Black awoke in his portrait. "Young Dexter? Best Head Boy Slytherin had had for years, as I recall."

"Certainly one of the most devious," Dumbledore said. "Do you also recall one Alkibiades Grant?"

"Oh, yes. The Gryffindor Lion of his day. Didn't he marry that Ravenclaw girl we inherited from Beauxbatons and disappear?"

"If you can call emigrating disappearing, yes…”

Fawkes gave another warning trill, and moments later a discreet tap sounded on the office door. "Come in, come in," Dumbledore called cheerfully, and the current Head of Slytherin House entered the room with his characteristic stride. "Ah, Severus. I take it you have some news of our mysterious young man?"

"I do, Headmaster." Snape's eyes went straight to the goshawk on the back of Dumbledore's chair. "He is not very forthcoming, but I did manage to get some information out of him. When he is stronger, I'll give him a dose of veritaserum." He placed the small metal badge on Dumbledore's desk. "He is a Vigiles, working for the California Department of Magic. He was following a group of smugglers when they cursed him out of the sky. That, so far, is all he is willing to tell me. Needless to say, the California Department of Magic has no jurisdiction outside that state, so his presence here is illegal."

"A Shadow Hunter!" Dumbledore beamed in delight. "Fascinating.... And now I have had a message from someone who would like to discuss the day's events. As I recall, the Vigiles always work in pairs, so I think I shall have to meet this young man." He handed the neat square of parchment to Snape. "I suggest that you and I go and sample some of Rosmerta's excellent ale."

"Is that wise, Headmaster?" Sour did not begin to describe Snape's expression.

Dumbledore's smile widened, his gaze as innocent as he could make it. Which might have fooled anyone except Snape.

"Why not, my dear boy? What possible harm can it do us to drink a tankard of ale each, hmm?" He wrote a quick reply and fastened it to the goshawk's yellow leg, then closed the window once the bird had flown away. "You know, you really should get out more, Severus."

###

The inn's private parlour was a large, comfortable room with a glowing fire in the hearth despite the June heat, and. like most of the inn, not a straight line in sight. Dexter checked every inch of it, and found nothing untoward but a latent silencing spell that could be activated to foil any eavesdropper. Footsteps sounded outside, and he was standing behind the door when it opened. Two men walked in, and as the door swung closed behind them, Dexter found himself facing an unwavering wand and a glittering black stare. His own wand was poised motionless, aimed at the man's head.

"Splendid!" the old man crowed, clapping his hands. "Constant vigilance, as my dear friend Alastor would say. Come, let's sit down and be comfortable, and we can get the introductions over with."

Aware on a gut level that someone had triggered the silencing spell and without word or wand or gesture, Dexter did not move. He was focused entirely on the intense eyes of his perhaps-opponent, and all his instincts were screaming at him that this man was dangerous - deadly and unpredictable and on a very short fuse. Not that anything showed on the harsh features. They were cold, expressionless - suddenly the Headmaster was standing between them, smiling benignly.

"My boys," he said, a gentle command in his voice. "Put away your wands."

Much to his disgust, Dexter found himself obeying. So did the black-robed man.

"Excellent." A beaming smile was bestowed on them both. "Come, sit down. I am Albus Dumbledore, and this is Professor Snape, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House, and my trusted friend."

"Jon Dexter," he said, and asked the question that was aching in his throat. "The man who fell - have you identified him?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said compassionately. "And before I say more, I must tell you that he lives." He held out his hand, palm up, and the enamelled badge shone in fire-and sun-light. "He tells us his name is Vastarnyi."

Relief was like a punch in the stomach, and following it was anger. He took out his own badge and held it up. "David Vastarnyi, and I am going to kill him with my bare hands...."

"Yes, quite understandable." Dumbledore's twinkle held amusement and sympathy in equal measure. "I take it he frequently gets himself into varying degrees of trouble?"

"Headmaster." Snape's voice was deep, smooth and acerbic at the same time. "Fascinating as this is, may I point out that we are here to obtain answers, not indulge in social chit-chat. I was not aware, Vigiles Dexter, that the remit of your organisation extended to the British Isles in general and Hogsmeade in particular. Or are you and your compatriot merely suffering from an excess of zeal?"

Dexter drew himself up, stung by the icy sarcasm. It was too like something his father might have said to sit comfortably with him. "My remit, Professor Snape, is anywhere my quarry goes," he responded, his own voice chill and all but expressionless. "And if Justice and the Law do not coincide, than I'll follow Justice every time."

"How very - enterprising of you." It was a sneer of mild contempt, but Dexter's response was cut off by Dumbledore's chuckle.

"Enough," the old man said, laying a hand on both their arms. "Or I will have to start docking house-points - though I must confess, Jonathan, that I would be hard pressed to decide which House to take yours from. The young man in our hospital wing is possibly a potential Gryffindor, but - "

"Headmaster," Snape interrupted. "This is hardly relevant."

"Oh, I don't know. It could be quite important.” Dumbledore gave them a push towards the chairs by the fire. "Come, sit down," he said, "and let us 'talk of many things:  
Of shoes - and ships - and sealing-wax -  
Of cabbages - and kings -  
And why the sea is boiling hot -  
And whether pigs have wings.'  
What is it about your smugglers that's so vitally important you must cross the sea to follow them? And why are they here in this part of Scotland?"

Dexter didn't answer. Obviously Vas had told them only the bare minimum, which meant that veritaserum hadn't been used on him. Yet. One instinct told him he could trust Dumbledore; the man gave the surface impression of a happy, bumbling old fool, but beneath it Dexter sensed he was diamond-bright and diamond-hard. Snape - was another matter. He couldn't read the man, other than to know that beneath the arctic exterior he was an explosion waiting to happen, nerves and temper strung taught as any bow-string. But to trust him?

Albus Dumbledore obviously did. And besides, they would get anything they wanted to know just as soon as they put three drops of veritaserum on Vas' tongue. That is, unless he spat it in their faces…Though come to think of it, his partner would only have one chance at rejecting the potion before he was hexed into the middle of next week. And Dexter had the feeling that Snape would be very good indeed at hexes.


	3. Interview with a Dead Man

Hermione was still speculating. Harry sat back and let her words wash over him, paying little attention to what she was saying. Her earlier words were stuck in his mind, running in a loop. Death Eater. He might be a Death Eater. But if he'd been cursed by Aurors, surely they'd have contacted Dumbledore - unless they were off chasing the rest of the man's gang. Harry sat a little straighter. Yes. That made sense, and would explain why the students hadn't been stopped from leaving the school grounds, nor had been summoned back: the Headmaster knew they were safe.

But were they? If there had been one Death Eater hanging around, there might well be others. And that one must have been uncomfortably close to him. He'd been flying high, just under the cloud-cover, eyes searching for the Snitch. He'd dodged the Bludger easily and it had careered on into the murk above him. Then moments later Harry had heard the sickening crack of Bludger on broomstick, and the body had tumbled past him, along with shards of shattered wood.

It was an unpleasant reminder of how vulnerable he was, especially when concentrating on quidditch. Harry gave a short laugh, and drained his glass.

"What?" Ron demanded. "Share the joke, for Merlin's sake. I could do with a laugh."

"It's no joke," Harry said. "Just because I'm paranoid, doesn't mean no one's out to get me. If that man was one of Voldemort's lot, I want to know."

"Yes, me, too," Hermione said, "but how can we find out? I can't see Dumbledore telling the school - it'd cause a panic - "

"But he'd tell us," Ron cut in eagerly. "After all, Harry's The Boy Who Lived!"

Harry winced. "I wish you wouldn't call me that," he muttered.

Any replies his friends might have made were lost when Colin Creevey burst through the door.

"He's dead!" he screeched excitedly, "Nick just told us - bone-breaker curse - and Professor McGonagall confiscated my camera!"

###

Colin's wasn't the only camera to be taken. Some half a dozen students had managed to snap pictures of the falling body, but at the evening meal, there were no explanations, no news other than Dumbledore's sorrowful announcement that despite Madam Pomfrey's best efforts, the 'unfortunate man has died of his injuries.'

It wasn't nearly enough for Harry. Which was why, at one o'clock in the morning he was covered in his Invisibility Cloak, walking silently along the corridors and stairs of the castle, heading for the hospital wing.

He intended to see for himself whether or not the man had the Dark Mark on his arm, and if that meant inspecting a dead body at close quarters, then that was what he was going to do.

Harry had said nothing to Ron or Hermione of his intentions. This was something he had to do on his own. Besides, a corpse presented no danger, and with the aid of the Invisibility Cloak, there wouldn't be any problem getting into the otherwise empty ward at this time of the night.

So Harry was startled to hear the muffled sound of voices through the heavy door. Snape's was unmistakable, and the gentler, higher tones had to be Madam Pomfrey's. Then Snape's voice was clearer, closer, and Harry flattened himself against the wall as the door opened.

"I'll replenish any of your stock of potions as soon as possible," the Potion Master said over his shoulder. "Goodnight."

"Thank you, Professor," the medi-witch said quickly.

Snape didn't respond, and Harry managed to sidle into the room as the door swung closed behind him.

It was only then that it occurred to Harry that Madam Pomfrey might prefer not to keep a corpse in the ward itself. He hesitated, looking around. The medi-witch was disappearing into her office, shutting the door behind her. At the far end of the long room, one of the beds was screened off and he started towards it.

Cautiously aware that it might be a sick or injured student, Harry crept up to the screens as quietly as possible, and peered through a narrow gap in the drapes. It was the fallen man. He was lying as if asleep, hair a dark uncombed tangle against the pristine whiteness of the pillowcase.

Harry frowned. Shouldn't the sheet be covering his face? That was what everyone did with corpses on the TV crime shows Dudley was addicted to. Then again the dead man didn't look dead. Harry knew what death looked like: Cedric's face had been indisputably lifeless. But perhaps Madam Pomfrey had done something to make him seem more - at peace. Being the woman she was, she'd do that if the stranger was a Death Eater or an Auror.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Harry eased one of the screens aside and slid into the narrow space between it and the bed. He wasn't looking forward to this, but it had to be done.

The sheet was folded neatly under the man's chin, and Harry was relieved to see that the blood and most of the bruises had been charmed away. He shrugged off his cloak and cautiously lifted the sheet aside so he could get at the man's arms. And froze.

The nightshirt-covered chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His gaze flew to the stranger's face, and discovered a pair of very blue eyes gazing at him with amused interest.

"If I was you," the man drawled quietly, "my next words would be 'oh, shit...'"

Harry flushed, jaw jutting stubbornly. "Not even close," he snapped, drawing his wand with quidditch-swift reflexes. He rested the point lightly against the stranger's temple.. "Roll up your sleeves."

"I guess this means you're not a trainee medic?" He made no move to obey.

"Good guess," Harry said, tightly. "You want to do it under Imperius?"

"Don't know if I could." His smile was disarming, and told Harry that his bluff hadn’t worked. "I got hit by a couple of bone-breakers. Your medi-witch is good but even she can't work miracles. Why the interest in my arms?"

"I have a fetish," Harry said coldly "Do it. Left arm first." Inside he was shaking. _Don't let him think I'm just a kid...._

"You think you can zap me before I yell?" He sounded merely interested.

"You think you can fight Imperius?" Harry countered, continuing, rather desperately, with the pretence.

The man's smile was somehow wolfish. "I know I can," he said softly. "But you look like someone who thinks he's got cause, so I'll go along with it. For now." Moving with painful slowness, he fumbled with the buttoned cuff, sweat breaking out on his face. "I'm Vas. David Vastarnyi. And you are?"

Belatedly Harry registered his accent. "You're American." It sounded like an accusation to his own ear. Did that make it less likely he was one of the Dark Lord's?

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Not for me. For all I know, Voldemort is hiring internationally." To his surprise, Vas didn't flinch at the name.

"Huh?" the man asked blankly. "No one's hired me, and who's this Voldemort guy?"

Confidence suddenly shaken, Harry stood back a pace. He'd not yet met anyone in the wizarding world who could speak that name with casual ease. Except Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, and – his chest felt tight – Sirius Black. "Lord Voldemort," he said. "Tom Riddle."

"Sorry, kid." Vas shrugged. "Never heard of 'em. Or is that an alias?" Finally he managed to undo the button and pushed up the voluminous sleeve. The tanned, well-muscled forearm sported some scabbed gashes where bones had broken through his skin, but no tattoos at all, let alone the Dark Mark.

"Oh," Harry said. "Um, would you mind...?" and he gestured vaguely to Vas' right arm. "Sorry, but I have to be sure."

"No problem," and he started on the other cuff. "After, maybe you'll tell me what this is all - " He broke off as the tap of brisk heels came towards them. Harry swore and snatched up his cloak, pulling it over him in desperate haste just as Madam Pomfrey popped her head around the screens.

"Mr. Vastarnyi," she said, "do you need anything?" and Harry gritted his teeth, waiting to be denounced.

"Uh, no, I'm fine," he said, "just hot and aching."

"Hmm.” Madam Pomfrey came to the bedside, fingertips on his forehead checking his temperature. "You have a fever, young man, which is only to be expected. Give the potion chance to work, and try to sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," he said obediently, and closed his eyes.

As soon as the medi-witch left, Harry shrugged off his cloak. "Why didn't you tell her I was here?" he whispered urgently.

"Because I want to know what the hell is going on," Vas said as quietly, "and I get the feeling I won't find out from Madam Pomfrey, or that Snape guy. Did you think I was drugged too deep to wake up when you grabbed the sheet?"

Harry shook his head. "The Headmaster told us all you're dead," he answered. "We thought you were either a Death Eater or an Auror so I wanted to find out if you had the Dark Mark or not. And you don't."

"You must have needed to know that pretty badly?"

"Yes," Harry said. "Thanks for not splitting on me. Madam Pomfrey's okay, but..." He draped himself in the cloak again and started to leave.

"Hey, kid," Vas said, voice quietly serous. "I'm not an Auror, either, but I am one of the good guys."

Harry didn't answer. Moving as swiftly and silently as he could, he let himself out of the hospital wing and hurried back to the Gryffindor Tower. Luckily the Fat Lady was more than half-asleep and didn't notice that the whispered password came out of thin air.


	4. Medusa's Tears

"Fiery Trefoil roots," Dexter said, "grown on granite. Merlin's Lichen. Thestrals' gall stones. Distilled Bundimun secretions. Boomslang venom. These are the main ingredients. They're calling it Medusa's Tears. When only a few drops of this potion are combined with fresh water it's corrosive enough to strip flesh from bones. Even diluted in a lake - or reservoir - it's going to be lethal."

"And almost certainly would not react to metals or ceramics," Snape added, a gleam in his eyes that Dexter did not like. "Yet the ratios would be critical, and given the roots and Bundimun secretions the preparation even more so. Merlin's Lichen and the gall stones would be the only ingredients that could hold it all in balance.... Has it been perfected, then?"

"No," Dexter said, eyeing the Potions Master with new and wary respect. "Or half of California would be dead. The Dragon Circle is a criminal organisation running protection rackets, money-laundering and hired killers. They're currently based in Nevada. Their aim is to move into California, but to do that they need to take out the San Andreas Alliance, and they aim to use the Tears potion to do it. How, we're not certain, yet. Probably by contaminating a building's water supply, or even an area's reservoir. Whether you drink it or shower in it, you're dead."

"Two of those five ingredients," Dumbledore said quietly, "can certainly be found in or near the Forbidden Forest."

"So can the Lichen," Snape said. His voice was little more than a hungry whisper. "I take it that their supply of these particular elements is limited?"

"Yes. The Boomslang and Bundimun are stock ingredients and you can get them relatively easily, but the other three are very rare and hard to come by. Merlin's Lichen doesn't grow in America - only in certain peat bogs in the UK. There are only a few herds of domesticated Thestrals, and one of those is in the Forbidden Forest. The bedrock around here is granite, so I guess the Fiery Trefoil can be found if you know where to look."

"Perhaps," Snape said, "but I suspect that there are very few who might know its location. Any incomers would have to search...." He turned away, frowning. “Perhaps, Headmaster, you should have a word with Professor Sprout, in case certain students have been asking questions about rare herbs?"

"An excellent suggestion, Severus. In the mean time, what do we do about you, Jonathan? And that young man in our Infirmary?"

"They should disappear," Snape said, his mouth a thin line. Dexter frowned. That 'disappear' could be taken as two one-way tickets back to America, or a couple of weighted bodies in the nearby lake.

"I'm not so sure about that," Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eyes that Dexter was beginning to find irritating. So did Snape, if the downturn of his mouth was anything to go by.

"May I point out, Headmaster, that thanks to our resident hero, Hogwarts is already under surveillance? Medusa's Tears is a subject that would be of great interest to some, should they learn of it. The presence of two aliens - " and somehow that last word implied that Dexter and Vastarnyi were carriers of a particularly sordid plague, " - would arouse a great deal more curiosity than is already rife. We can protect our own bounds."

"Yes, we can," Dumbledore agreed. "But we must also do all we can to assist the Vigiles. This potion must not be perfected, Severus. The implications, should it be used anywhere in the world, would be dire indeed. Jonathan, do the smugglers know why they have been sent to procure these things?"

"No, sir. Medusa's Tears is a closely guarded secret. Only a handful within the upper ranks of the CDM and the Dragon Circle know about it. And Vas and myself," he added. "Now you." He stared at Snape, wondering if he could get away with Obliviating him here and now. There was a sudden glitter in those impenetrable black eyes, as if he had caught the thought - a Legilimens? Shit! He broke eye-contact immediately, and strengthened his mind block. He was a pretty damn-good Occlumens but this Potions Master was very much an unknown quality.

"I promise you, dear boy," the Headmaster said with non-twinkling gravity, "that neither Severus nor I will allow this information to go to anyone else. You will need a reason to stay in the area, and to have a free rein. That can best be given by offering you employment at Hogwarts. Since our last Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher left us, that post has not been filled. I have been covering it so far, but it has caused a great deal of disruption to my other duties. I suggest that you take on that post for the time being, at least for the sixth and seventh years."

"Headmaster!" The fury in Snape's voice was enough for Dexter to settle his centre of gravity, his wand once more at the ready. "That is - outrageous even for you! We know nothing of this man - "

"Oh, I believe I know a fair bit, eh, Jonathan?" That damned sparkle was back. "You look more like young Alkibiades, but I'd say you're closer to Sheridan Dexter in a lot of ways. A Head Boy, Severus, and a Slytherin. Phineas was very proud of him, as I recall.... David, now - let's see, there was a Vastarnyi who played professional quidditch, I believe? Any relation to our young man?"

"Vas played for the California Condors for a while, yes," Dexter said, "but - "

"Excellent! He can assist Madam Hooch. What do you say, Jonathan? Will you join the Hogwarts' staff?"

"Perhaps," Snape said silkily, temper now under an iron control, "he would like to consult his superior officers in California? A pity he is undoubtedly here without their sanction...."

"We've already had that conversation, Snape," Dexter snapped. "Thank you, Headmaster. We'll be glad to take you up on the offer. I've done some DADA tutoring with new recruits for the CDM, but I'll need to know what level I'll be aiming at with the kids."

Snape gave a snort of derision. "Given that we will sooner or later be involved in a war between the Dark Lord and his opponents, I suggest you teach them every trick in your book, _Professor_ Dexter."

"Regrettably, Severus is right." Dumbledore sighed, and for a fleeting second, pain and grief were etched on his features. "Will you do it, Jonathan? Will you help them to win, and to survive?"

"Yes, sir," Dexter said, and meant it. "There's one thing, Headmaster. I'd like to see my partner. As soon as possible."

"Of course, my boy. And so you shall. Collect your things, and you can return with us. I'd like you to meet the rest of the staff in any case. Between Severus and I, we can keep you hidden from any curious eyes."

"Thank you." Dexter didn't doubt that for a moment. In fact he had a strong suspicion that Dumbledore didn't need anyone's help as far as magic was concerned.

"Not at all. We had best be going. Severus, when we get back to the castle, would you please check with Poppy to see if David is up to receiving visitors and advise her of the situation? Without mentioning the potion in question, of course."

"That goes without saying," Snape said coldly. "No one will learn of it from me."

But there was a kind of aching regret behind his level voice that put up all of Dexter's hackles.

###

“Well, well, well,” Vas murmured to himself. “So that’s the famous Harry Potter…” The scar was unmistakable. It had taken guts for the kid to sneak in and check him out. But then, young Potter had proved his courage over the years, with an enemy like Voldemort on his tail. Give him credit, he’d never backed down…

Most of the wizarding world outside Europe regarded the Dark Lord as an essentially local problem, which would, it was hoped, be solved locally. If it wasn’t, and Voldemort survived, then it might become a bigger problem and intervention might be needed. That would be a last resort. The US had not asked for aid in coping with their bête noire, the half-demon monsters that had taken out a chunk of muggle New York – nor had the Russian Republic when a family of rogue dragons had devastated a huge swathe of the Ukraine. From what he’d heard, Chinese magicians were strenuously resisting all suggestions that the mound-tomb of their first Emperor should be excavated – that man had been an evil magician of the blackest stripe, and the thought of some innocent muggle archaeologist letting him loose – well, Voldemort would be small beer indeed compared to that one.

No, Europe would solve its own problem, probably with the aid of young Potter. Who might indeed be a force to reckon with when he grew up. He would bear watching…

Madam Pomfrey’s potion was working. Vas fell asleep with almost the suddenness of falling off his broom.

###

He woke with an equal suddenness – the instinct of the hunter when danger is in the offing – hearing an approaching footfall, and had barely the time to gather himself before the danger was right there, scowling at him malevolently.

“Give me one good reason,” Dexter said, “why I shouldn’t Transfigure you into an avocado.”

“The avocado has more brains?” Vas guessed, trying to look pitiful and repentant.

“Got it in one.” Dexter pulled up a stool. “The shaman says you’ll live.”

“Sha… Oh, the nurse-lady. Don’t think they call ‘em Shamans over here. Yeah, she knows her stuff. I’m still stiff, some, and sore, but - -“ He was angling for sympathy. And failing to win it.

“Whatever, you deserve it. Didn’t I say ‘no soloing’? Vas, I don’t know how many local ordinances we’ve trampled or ignored, but no one is going to be happy about this. No one. Especially if it gets back to the Chief. He still hasn’t forgiven you for that earthquake.”

“It was just a little tremor. I was acting on the spur of the moment. Had to be fast, or the muggles would have crowded in and seen what was in the sewer – “

“I heard it all before, remember?” Dexter said. “God knows what you’d have spilled if that Snape guy had dosed you with veritaserum. Just as well he won’t have to.”

“Yeah, that stuff tastes like sweaty socks – what do you mean, he won’t have to?”

“I mean I’ve briefed him and Albus Dumbledore – he’s the head honcho here – on what we’re doing here and why. Luckily I’ve got some ancestral pull. Snape didn’t like it, but Albus over-ruled him.”

“Indeed I did.” A head poked through the gap between the screens; a smiling face surrounded by long white hair and a beard, and topped by a yellow and purple hat were the first impressions Vas got, then he met the old wizard's eyes. They were like chips of diamond, sparkling and clear and rather daunting. “Vigiles Vastarnyi, I am pleased to see you looking so much better. Though you are not the most popular person in this school, I am afraid, since your unprecedented and precipitous appearance caused the cancellation of our Quidditch semi-final…”

“Sorry about that, sir.” Vas decided that he liked the look of this guy. He didn’t possess the weird insight that JD sometimes had, but he felt Dumbledore was okay. The Headmaster might have the demeanour of a doddering old fool, but underneath – pure steel.

“No matter. Unfortunately, I had to announce to the school that the poor man died of his injuries, which might serve to lull your quarry for a while. Having discussed matters with your partner, I have formulated a plan by which you may continue your investigations. I understand you have some professional expertise in the matter of Quidditch?”

“I was Chaser for the California Condors, sir, three seasons running.” In spite of himself, Vas could not help the note of pride that crept into his voice.

“One of their most successful periods, if memory serves.” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Would you consider offering some coaching to our teams? This will give you the protection of the school, a reason for being here, and an albeit limited entrée into the locale.” He smiled. “Our teams are more than adequate, but a little polish will not come amiss.”

“And before you ask,” Dexter cut in, “I’m taking a post here as well.”

“Great, Jonno, but you’re not exactly the Great White Hope on the Quidditch field…”

“I won’t need to be.” said Dexter. "As of tomorrow morning, I'm teaching DADA."

"And tomorrow morning," said Madam Pomfrey, pushing between them and turning at bay, arms folded across her bosom, "is a scant few hours away. This young man needs rest."

“A few more minutes, please,” Dexter pleaded, “in private.”

She glared at him, but nodded. “Five,” she said. “To the second.” And they were left alone.

Dexter cast a silencing spell, and Vas grinned at him ruefully. “I got checked out tonight,” he said. “By the Boy Who Lived. We’ve walked into a war-zone, Jansci.”

“You fell into one, you mean. We’re here for the Dragoneers, Vas. Tell me what you found out.”


	5. Under Cover

"I've only got a few minutes," Dexter said, sliding between the screens around Vas' bed early the next morning. "How are you doing?"

Vas pushed himself up against the pillows. "Great. I'll be out of here tomorrow or the day after. Which is fine by me. A hospital bed is a hospital bed, no matter where it is."

"At least you're alive to complain about it," Dexter said with a wry smile. "I can't stay long, I'm about to make my entrance down in the Hall. Want to change places?"

"Nope. You'll be fine." Vas pushed himself up on his pillows, and Dexter saw the camouflaged wince. "Dumbledore left this for you," Vas said quickly, gesturing to the neatly folded black something at the foot of the bed before his partner could comment.

Distracted for the time being, Dexter shook out the voluminous folds of the academic robe and pulled it on. "What do you think?" he grinned. "Do I look like a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor?"

Vas studied him, head on one side. He frowned. "Sure you do, Jansci," he said. "But Hogwarts isn't Harvard. You're a Yank, too damn pretty for your own good, and while I know what a stone cold asshole you are inside, you got to grab these kids by the throat right from the start and get their attention. Let out the Cougar, _viragam_, and out-flare Snape, and do it in leather, not linen." He reached up and pushed back the heavy wave of pale hair that inevitably had fallen over Dexter's forehead. "Show them the warrior-face," he went on. "Wear your long coat – think _Matrix_ \- and knock 'em dead."

Dexter gave him a wry smile. "Fine, just don't keep on canceling the charm." He combed his hair back with his fingers, and a few whispered words kept it there against inclination and gravity. He exchanged the Hogwarts robe for the long-skirted leather coat he dug out of his backpack. "Is this more the look, Maestro?"

"That's it, JD." Vas chuckled. "Though if I were you, I'd lock the charm in as tight as you can. Or use gel." He squinted at his partner, and Jon felt the magic fail. His hair immediately dropped over his forehead again.

"Bastard," he said affectionately.

###

Hermione saw him first, and almost choked on her sausage. “Gggaggh…”

Ron hit her between the shoulder blades, but she swatted him back. “Look!!” she hissed. “Did you _know_ Draco had a big brother?”

“Wha-Drac-Who…?” Ron stuttered, as he and Harry turned together to see a tall, very blond young man striding - stalking - up the aisle between the tables. His long black leather coat, ankle-length, streamed behind him like a cape. His hair was cut to collar-length and combed back. His face had the intensity of a young eagle. He was, Hermione thought suddenly, utterly gorgeous. Then she kicked herself mentally for fancying a Malfoy.

If he was a Malfoy. _Please let him not be!_

“Your attention, please.” Dumbledore’s voice commanded silence. “As you all know, we have had difficulty in recruiting a Defence Against the Dark Arts tutor, but at last we have succeeded. Not only that, he has kindly agreed to go against the common practice, and will commence his duties in the middle of term. Starting today. I would like you to meet your new Defence Against the Dark Arts tutor. Professor Jonathan Dexter.”

“_He’s_ the new DADA?” Harry said. Rather scornfully, probably remembering a certain undoubtedly handsome but completely useless Gilderoy Lockhart.

“Mr. Dexter hails from the New World,” Dumbledore was saying. “He has studied with the Harvard Academy of Magics and with the Native American Institute. I am sure you will welcome him and his expertise.”

“An American?” Ron snorted. “Scraping the barrel a bit, isn’t it?”

“Considering that Hogwarts hasn’t managed to keep a DADA for more than a year in all the time we’ve been here, I imagine they have to take whoever they can get,” Harry agreed, but he was frowning. There was another American in the school, up in the hospital wing.

Hermione gave them a glare. "It can't be a coincidence," she whispered.

"Huh?" Ron glanced at her, startled. Then the penny dropped. "Oh. Yes! Wonder what's going on?"

"We'll find out," Harry said with determination. "But we keep it to ourselves, remember?" The other two nodded, but Hermione's smile had nothing to do with the mystery of The Man Who Fell.

Unless the Malfoy family had an American branch, she was safe to fancy the new tutor.

“Thank you, Headmaster," the new teacher said, his voice carrying easily throughout the Great Hall. "I look forward to sharing what I know with the students of Hogwarts.”

_Oh, even his_ voice _was gorgeous_, Hermione thought, feeling her insides go mushy.

“’What he knows’,” Ron scoffed, managing to mangle the accent. “Americans don’t have a history of wizardry, everyone knows that.”

“_Native_ American wizardry is at least as old as European,” Hermione corrected sharply. “At _least_. ‘Shamans and Spells in the South-West’, is in the Library. Madam Pince recommended it.”

Ron opened his mouth to argue, but Harry shut him up. “She’s right, Ron.”

“And,” Hermione went on relentlessly, “don’t forget not all the emigrants to America were muggles. And they would have taken our Old-World wizarding traditions with them.”

“Okay,” Ron admitted grudgingly, “But - " Then stopped in mid-sentence. The Headmaster had spoken an Important Word: Quidditch.

“In a few days time we shall also be welcoming a Quidditch coach to assist Madam Hooch,” Dumbledore was saying. “A young man who has flown Chaser with the California Condors…”

“Another American?” Ron muttered, "or him upstairs?"

“They won the US league four times,” Harry breathed. “_Four times_, Ron… Only the Finches ever bettered them.”

“Quidditch, quidditch, quidditch,” Hermione cut in scornfully. “You boys think that game is a matter of life and death!”

“No, we don’t!” Ron objected. “It’s much more important than that!” And sniggered.

“I wonder how long he’ll last,” Harry mused.

“Who? The DADA or the Quidditch coach?” Ron helped himself to toast and marmalade.

“Either. Both. The other question is – what are they doing here anyway?”


	6. Boggarts and Dark Marks

"Your classroom," Snape said coldly, opening the door and stepping inside. "The office is up those stairs. There are various items and entities you will find useful. Probably. Including a boggart. Should you require anything specific, contact the Headmaster or myself. Any books you may need can be discussed with Madam Pince, the Librarian. The term's prospectus will be on the desk, along with the lesson-plans formulated by the Headmaster."

"Thank you," Dexter said, equally coolly. "Are there any individuals I should know about?" Black eyes appraised him. There was something bleak and bitter about that intense stare.

"That, too, should be discussed with the Headmaster, though his assessments should be taken with a modicum of salt. As the Headmaster has said, the sixth and seventh years should receive the most of your attention, and you will find the inter-house rivalry to be - fierce. Most of them are, at least within the eyes of the law, adults. But don’t expect them to act like it. Hermione Granger is an insufferable know-it-all who - unfortunately - has a lot of potential. Neville Longbottom is a walking disaster in all but Herbology, and has discovered more ways to mishandle any kind of spell than a sane person would think possible. You'll need to have wards at the ready every time he picks up his wand. Harry Potter - is a lazy, reckless, temperamental and argumentative little beast who needs to be watched like a hawk. He also has a surprising amount of potential which he seems determined to waste. The Headmaster will expect you to drum as much knowledge into his head as is humanly possible in the short time you'll be with us. Professor Dumbledore will no doubt give you a different reading. As for the rest of them, you can form your own opinions."

"Thank you," Dexter said again. "How imminent is this war of yours, Professor?"

Snape's smile was mirthless, more of a grimace than anything else. "Who knows, Mr. Dexter. Next year, next month. Tomorrow."

The American accepted that in silence. Snape watched him scan the chamber, bitterly aware that this man and his partner would not make his own task any easier to carry out. Indeed, their very presence was enough to rouse undue curiosity in unwanted quarters, and if - no, when - the news reached certain ears, he himself would bear the brunt of it. Resentment was acid in his blood.

"You might," he heard himself saying, "consider a duelling club. Not for the strict forms and disciplines, of course - more in the free combat style."

"Guerrilla warfare, you mean?" Disconcertingly blue eyes, unpleasantly similar to Dumbledore's but without that infuriating twinkle, met his gaze. He tried a gentle Legilimens probe and found it blocked. "I can do that. But," Dexter went on, "you do realise that Voldemort - " and to his fury, Snape could not prevent his flinch, " - is your problem? We're here for the smugglers and the Tears. That's all. We won't intervene."

"Our problem," he said silkily. "And if the Potter brat fails to live up to expectations and is defeated, what of the rest of the wizarding world, Mr. Dexter?"

"That's a different matter."

"I see. You perceive the Dark Lord to be no threat to the Americas, then? Or the rest of the wizarding world?"

"Not at present. All our intelligence suggests he's a local problem, Professor Snape. A European problem."

"Intelligence. Where would we be without it. So your country would magnanimously condescend to come to our aid should we find our backs against the wall? How noble. Or would you merely wait until he has exhausted himself killing us, then stroll in and defeat him to the heartfelt and humble plaudits of the survivors?" Snape supposed he should feel intimidated by the proud and angry stare bent on him, but he wasn't. He'd been glared at by more dangerous beings than this self-righteous foreigner.

"My country doesn't pull stunts like that!"

"Nooo?" Snape drawled. "Then I suggest you are not familiar with your own recent history in both the muggle and wizarding arenas." He would have said more, but the Dark Mark on his forearm was suddenly burning with an all-too-familiar agony, and he had clamped his right hand over it in a purely reflex action before he could stop himself. "I'll leave you to it," he said abruptly, talking over Dexter's immediate protest. "Be warned, Hogwarts is a maze and the staircases capricious. When you discover you're lost, ask a painting. Good day."

Snape turned on his heel and left, resisting the impulse to slam the door behind him. He spared enough time for a scant few words with the Headmaster, then hurried out of the school and its grounds. As soon as he was clear of Hogwarts' boundaries, he Apparated.

###

Dexter frowned thoughtfully at the door, biting back his anger. That man had an unerring knack of getting under his guard and biting, and Dexter did not like him one bit. More to the point, he actively mistrusted him. Severus Snape had an agenda, of that he was certain. With half his mind on the Potions Master, Dexter found the boggart in its cupboard and inadvertently let it get away from him. The result was a spider the size of an army truck, and he had to concentrate on the image of the monster with legs of multi coloured marshmallow before the Riddikulus spell stopped it in its tracks. He forced it back into confinement, and turned to find one of the students standing in the open doorway, watching him.

"Ron doesn't like spiders, either," the boy said, with a lopsided smile. No, not a boy, a teenager fast approaching adulthood, with all the awkward gangliness of the species. Even without Vas' description, the scar on his forehead was a giveaway. "I - um - Professor Dumbledore told me to show you to your living quarters, sir."

"Okay. Potter, isn't it?"

"Yes," he agreed, wariness obvious in face and voice. There was something else about him as well: an aura of grief, of pain, of a young man forced to grow up too fast, and only too aware of the burden placed on him.... None of it meshed with Snape's assessment. Dexter shook his head to clear the impressions that weren't quite empathic and nowhere near a Legilimens spell. "You're in the Astronomy Tower," the teenager said, his eyes flicking away from Dexter's gaze, refusing contact. "The other American will be as well," Potter continued. "When he arrives." There was no doubt in Dexter's mind that as far as Potter was concerned, this was no coincidence. "Professor Dumbledore said your hawks would be more comfortable up there, and so would our owls."

"I'll bet. Professor Snape said that inter-house rivalry is fierce," he went on. "What should I be looking out for?"

"Hexes," Potter said succinctly. "Jinxes. Slytherin hates Gryffindor and Gryffindor hates Slytherin. So do Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. You'll be okay in one-house classes, but with any that are mixed with Slytherin, you'll have trouble. You'll get no support from the Slytherin Head of House, either, if you come down hard on them." There was a world of hate in Potter's quiet voice. Then suddenly a pair of very green eyes locked on his, and Dexter sensed the power in the skinny form in front of him. "You're with him, aren't you? The American in the hospital wing?"

"Yes," Dexter said. "But we'd rather it wasn't common knowledge. There'll be gossip enough as it is. Vas told me you've visited him," he went on, offering a friendly smile. "Want to check out my forearms for Marks as well?"

Potter flushed, and was just another scrawny adolescent. "Uh - no, s'okay. If Dumbledore hired you, you're - " He broke off and frowned, colour still high. "The Headmaster doesn't often make mistakes about people." he added grudgingly. "Ron and Hermione know about him, but apart from Dumbledore - and Snape - no one else does. As far as the rest of the school is concerned, the man who fell is dead."

"You've really got it in for that guy, haven't you?" Dexter asked softly.

Potter didn't pretend to misunderstand him, nor did he flush this time. He nodded, his face aged and grim. "About as much as he has for me," he said. "We both have our reasons. Best if you don't get in the way. Um, why are you here, sir?"

"Hunting the crooks who damn-near killed my partner - and they have nothing to do with Voldemort."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Very sure." He hoped it would stay that way. Medusa's Tears was not a potion that needed to come to the Dark Lord's attention.

###

The summons had not come as a surprise. Snape had known it would be only a matter of time before word of the fallen man reached the Dark Lord, not to mention the arrival of two foreigners so soon after, and had sent his own report to Voldemort. Not to have done so would have brought a great deal of pain down on him, and while he had no objection to inflicting pain on others, Snape did not appreciate being on the receiving end.

Tensed and ready for anything, Snape emerged in the flickering gloom of the Victorian brick-built cellars. But there was no reception committee, no irate Dark Lord and the hissed "Crucio!" and twisting agony, only Wormtail slinking out of the shadows, cowering over his twitching hands. Snape sneered at him. Of all Voldemort's followers, this one he loathed and despised above all others, but he did not underestimate him.

"He is waiting for you," the man said, and hurried away, leaving Snape to follow in his tracks.

Snape had no real idea where in Britain he was, nor what kind of building rose above him, never having seen anything of the floors above this level. But it had to be a substantial building: the cellars were an interconnecting maze. He walked at Wormtail's heels, his long strides easily keeping up with the shorter man's scurrying pace. Not that he needed the guide: the Dark Lord would be in the largest chamber, a vast, echoing hall that had once stored heaven-knows-what a couple of hundred years ago.

A dais had been raised in the centre, and on it was a large throne-like chair very similar to the one Hogwarts' Headmaster sat on in the Great Hall of the castle. A tall, black-robed figure was seated there, one elbow propped on the arm of the chair, pointed white chin resting on the unnaturally long-fingered white hand, and red eyes burned like jewels in the light of the many torches around the walls.

"What have you learned?" The Dark Lord's voice was a high, breathy whisper, devoid of emotion.

"The dead man was an American, my lord," he said, kneeling at the foot of the steps. "There was nothing on him to give his name or reason for being there. However, another American has since arrived, but I haven't yet managed to discover if this is coincidence or linked. He has been employed to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts to the 6th and 7th years, and it would seem that he does have historic family links with Hogwarts. There is another American due to arrive in two days time and he is to assist Madam Hooch in quidditch training. How all this may fit together - if, indeed, it does - I do not yet know." He paused, "However, I have been asking discreet questions around Hogsmeade about other strangers - foreigners - so far nothing has come to light, but someone cursed that man out of the sky. My contacts, would, of course, be in touch with me should they learn anything."

"The Order of the Phoenix knows nothing?"

"Nothing, my Lord. They are as puzzled as I am, and as keen to get to the bottom of it."

"Misdirect them, Severus."

"I have, my Lord, and I'll continue to do so."

"Good. You may go. And, Severus,"

"Yes, my Lord?" "To remind you to be diligent - _Crucio!_"


	7. There’s more to Quidditch than Forking a Broom

Madam Hooch called a team meeting two days later, and Harry was not altogether surprised to see his mystery American standing at her side in the hazy sunshine of the June morning. Wearing a black t-shirt with the emblem of his team, a striking condor, and the motto ‘Born to Fly Wild’ on it, he was saying something to the teacher that actually had her grinning up at him.

“Ah, our teams,” she swung to greet them. “Slytherin – Ravenclaw – Hufflepuff – and Gryffindor. All present? Good. This is Mr. Vastarnyi, who the Headmaster has asked to assist with my coaching.”

“Gentlemen – and ladies –“ the American sketched a bow. “There’s only one way I can teach you anything. Once I know what you know already, that is. So – let’s fly. Let me see some warm-up manoeuvres and then we’ll try some team flying…”

He didn’t say much during the warm-up, nor when Madam Hooch paired Hufflepuff against Ravenclaw for a practice, but his eyes didn’t miss a trick. Harry noted with mingled amusement and irritation that Malfoy appeared to be hanging on every word, and was the first in the air when the Slytherin/Gryffindor practice started. The Slytherin team, on their state-of-the-art Nimbus 2100 brooms, started out well, and things were even until Malfoy started to show off. Things went downhill from there, as Draco wasn’t listening to his captain’s increasingly furious bellowing, and his attempt at a Wronski Feint nearly had him and young Ginny Weasley in a spectacular tangle. Harry sped to intervene, but the American was ahead of him, straightening Ginny’s flight and blocking Malfoy’s. “What exactly was that?” he inquired silkily. “Other than an aborted trainwreck?”

“A Wronski Feint. Sir.” Draco muttered, looking daggers.

“Uh-uh, Beauregard,” he corrected. “I’ll show you a Wronski Feint – you with the glasses - Mr. Potter, is it? – yeah, you’re a Seeker. Let’s show him how it should be done.”

And he proceeded to perform one of the most dazzling manoeuvres Harry had seen since the World Cup, plummeting towards the ground and spiralling up at the last split second with an ease and grace that had the spectators open-mouthed. Harry had to throw away caution and self-preservation to keep on his tail, but he managed it. He was flying by sheer instinct, caught up in an exhilarating rush. Vastarnyi finished with a flourish, snatching something out of the air and tossing it to Harry.

“There y’go, son. Well flown.”

Harry caught it by reflex. It was a chocolate frog.

“_Ribbit_,” said the Vastarnyi.

Ron was grinning all over his face, and Ginny was bright pink with excitement, almost bouncing with enthusiasm. The Vastarnyi landed neatly, and addressed his by-now riveted audience. Even Madam Hooch was listening, her stern expression marginally softened.

“What I want to show you,” Vas said, “is that you don’t need a state-of-the-art broom to be a good player. Sure, a Nimbus 2000 is a nice model, as is the fancy 2001,” and he cocked an eyebrow at Malfoy, who was sneering at the utilitarian Firebolt propped insouciantly in the crook of one arm, “but it’s not the broom, it’s the guy – or gal – on the broom that makes the difference. Now Beauregard there,” and he indicated Malfoy again, “obviously doesn’t believe me.”

“The name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Sir.” Draco was clearly furious, and his savage glare failed utterly to intimidate the American.

“I’d apologise, but I wasn’t the one saddled you with that monicker,” Vas said coolly. “What was I saying? Oh, yes – the flyer is what makes the difference. You guys – all of you – you’re good. But there’s always room for improvement. I’ll be coaching all team members, but I’m also offering more individual tuition—“

“Gryffindor will take you up on that, sir,” Harry said quickly, and Ron, stuttering slightly, added his endorsement. Vas nodded.

“Weasley, is it? You got a lot of potential as a Keeper, Mr. Weasley, but I want to see how you fly as a Beater. You could be an excellent all-rounder. Little sister there – “

“Ginny,” said Ginny, now the colour of a peony.

“Miss Ginny, I want to try you as a Chaser. Ideally, every team member should be able to sub in any position. You’ll have your specialities – but it does no harm to know what’s involved in the game as a whole. Slytherin team – Mr. Cornfitt, will you fly Beater? Mr. Mellicant – Chaser.” He went on to re-assign all the roles, but did not mention Draco – who was unable to keep quiet when his role of seeker was given to Perry Horncrow.

“_I’m_ the Slytherin Seeker. Sir.”

“Not for this try-out, Beauregard. For this try-out, you will sit quietly and you will watch.” Which had Malfoy simmering on the sidelines while Vas put the teams through their paces.

Vastarnyi was blithely unaware that he had made an enemy. But Harry overheard Draco in the changing room.

" - he’s not even a proper tutor. I don’t even think it’s legal for him to work here. If the Ministry knew…”

Ron nudged Harry. “You don’t think he’s going to make trouble, do you? ‘cause this guy’s _brilliant_.”

“Don’t see how he can.” Harry shrugged back into his shirt and sweater. “Dumbledore has every right to employ extra tutors. Listen, I’m going to ask if we can have the first tutorial. Probably tomorrow morning before breakfast. With sunrise so early, we could get in a good couple of hours.”

###

To give the Vastarnyi credit, he hadn’t realised quite what he was taking on in making his offer – either in the enthusiasm of quidditch-crazy teens, or in the early rising necessary. Dexter was not sympathetic.

“Get used to it,” he advised shortly. “If your practises are scheduled early, that’ll give you time for investigation around the village. I’m told that the Magical Creatures guy here is the one to tell you about the Forest. You will not, under any circumstances whatever, go soloing in there, or over, or under there – steer clear, you hear me?”

“Don’t you school-marm at me, JD.” Vas yawned. “Can I skip breakfast in Hall, do you think?”

“No.” And Dexter gave an evil grin. “Let the girls get a good look at you at your early-morning best…”

Vastarnyi flipped him the finger.

###

“Hermione, pass the juice, will you?” Ron mumbled around a slice of thickly marmaladed toast. The pitcher remained just out of reach, and Ron looked up in irritation to see Hermione’s gaze riveted on the top table. Now, sitting between Madam Hooch and Professor Sprout, the new quidditch coach was getting outside as much breakfast as he decently could, and, from the sound of the animated chatter, providing some entertainment as well. Even Professor McGonagal was laughing at something he’d said.

“I think I might have to take up quidditch…” Hermione murmured.

“Mmm.” Ginny nodded, leaning towards her. “He’s just yummy…”

“Oh, bloody _hell_,” Ron stared at them in horror. “_Yummy_?”

“Snape’s even more pickle-mouthed than usual,” Harry observed. “Bet he doesn’t like having DADA given to someone new.”

“You’d think he’d be used to it by now,” Ron sniggered. “Hurry up, can’t wait to see what DADA will be like with Hermione’s Golden Hero.”

“For goodness sake!” she protested, but they were off the bench, still bolting last mouthfuls of toast.


	8. Kindred Spirits

“..it was _awesome_,” Ron was saying to Harry, when Hermione caught up with him on the stairs en route to the Dark Arts classroom. “Did you see? She’s got a new peacock feather in her hat, and she was saying_ ‘Och Professorrrr, you must call me Minerrrva’,_” he affected a high-pitched Scots accent, “and acting all weird.”

“Well, he’s got half the female pupils in a tizzy – don’t see why the female staff should be immune.” Harry grinned. He had decided that he approved of this particular American.

“If you’re talking about Professor Dexter - “ Hermione began, but Ron shook his head.

“Nah. Our Quidditch coach. Told us to call him Vas,” he added proudly. “Anyway, old McGonagall is obviously smitten.” He would have said more, but the door opened, and they filed in to take their places.

In default of the professorial robes, Dexter wore a Harvard Academy sweatshirt, jeans, and Nikes. He leaned easily against the lectern, arms folded, and nodded briefly at Harry as the pupils settled down. “Ladies – gentlemen – you have me somewhat at a disadvantage, in that you all know who I am – but I know hardly any of you. So let’s start with a roll-call. Name and House affiliation will do for starters, so I know where to award the points. And be aware that I don’t play favourites. My Grandfather was a Gryffindor, and my great-grandfather a Slytherin Head Boy.” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Draco sit up a little straighter. “So I need to find out what you know.”

It was Hermione who gave him a comprehensive run-down on his predecessors’ lessons.

“Professor Lupin was great, but Gilderoy Lockhart was - useless!” she said, colour high. "Professor Moody was fine as well, but he wasn’t really Professor Moody, he was a Death Eater really and Professor Umbridge was horrible. She made us read books, and we’d already read them anyway, and she wouldn’t let us do any practical work so we did it ourselves.” Harry groaned under his breath and gave her a kick on the ankle. “Ow! Well, we did!” she finished defiantly.

“That shows initiative,” Dexter said calmly, his smile sympathetic rather than superior. “Not sure that it was sensible, though. Care to tell me more? I really do need to know what I’m working with here, people.”

Before Hermione could drop him deeper in the mire, Harry stood up. “We set up a classroom of our own, sir,” he said,. “Well, not all of us,” he added, eyes glancing involuntarily towards the Slytherin contingent. “We pooled our knowledge and helped the ones who were still a bit shaky on some of the spells and charms.”

“Why did you feel you had to do that, Mr. Potter?” There was no censure in the man’s even tones, just curiosity.

“Like Hermione said, sir, Professor Umbridge refused to teach us practical stuff. It was all out of text books. She was a Ministry appointment and they wouldn’t admit Voldemort was back. Some of us felt vulnerable, sir. Especially as there was a lot of bad feeling towards muggle-borns and half-bloods. Still is,” he added, resisting the urge to glare at Malfoy. He hesitated, decided not to mention the Battle at the Ministry of Magic, and the fact that Draco’s father had somehow escaped capture by the skin of his teeth, then listed the spells and charms they’d practiced, ending with the Patronus. Dexter’s eyebrow shot up.

“Nice one,” he said approvingly. “Did you all manage it?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, a hint of pride growing in his voice. “More or less. And we practiced combat as well, as best we could.”

“Excellent,” Professor Dexter said, his smile growing into a grin. “Then I’ll make sure the rest of the class is up to speed. Mr. Longbottom, were you part of this extracurricular spell-fest? Good. Would you please summon that chair to you using Accio.”

###

Dumbledore escorted Vas through the grounds to where a rather ramshackle hut stood beside a paddock and a garden plot. There was the sound of some rather tuneless singing coming from the meadow behind – as they rounded the hut, Vas saw a large and handsome hippogriff being rubbed down by a huge individual clad in a variety of fur, leather, and wool, all held together by a broad leather belt.

“Ah, Hagrid,” Dumbledore beamed. “I see Witherwings is doing well.”

“That he is, Headmaster,” Hagrid agreed proudly.

“Hagrid, let me introduce you to our new assistant Quidditch coach – Mr. David Vastarnyi. Mr. Vastarnyi, this is Hagrid, Professor of the Care of Magical Creatures in this faculty, and also our gamekeeper and my very good friend.”

Hagrid held out a grubby hand the size of a ham, looked at it, wiped it on his coat, and extended it again. “Nice t’meetcha,” he rumbled.

“Likewise,” Vas grinned. “That’s a very fine hippogriff.”

“Yeah!” Hagrid agreed enthusiastically. “Buckbeak – I mean, Witherwings, is special. Want to say hello?”

Vas advanced two paces, halted, and bowed respectfully. After a moment, the hippogriff inclined its head, and Vas moved closer, running a gentle hand over the savage beak and under the chin. Witherwings closed his eyes and clucked softly as the man’s fingers found the good spot. “What a great guy you are,” Vas murmured. “Gonna have to go flying, sometime.”

“He’ll like that,” Hagrid said. “Can’t give him the exercise he needs, really. I c’n see you know your creatures, Mr. Vastery.”

“My friends call me Vas.” Vas had progressed to petting the soft feathers at the back of the head, and Witherwings was pushing back against his hand and crooning.

“You must both excuse me,” Dumbledore said. “David, I leave you in Hagrid’s most capable hands.”

“Yeah, okay, Headmaster. Hey, Vas, you want’ta give him his lunch…?” And a bag of unidentifiable offal was thrust at Vastarnyi, who fished out a reeky handful without squeamishness and let the great beak take the morsels from his hand. Vas grinned over his shoulder at the Headmaster, who gave him a friendly nod as he walked back towards the castle. “Funny accent you got, Vas. You from Durmstrang?”

“Nope. Good old US of A. America,” he added, “Though my family are Hungarian.”

“Hungarian! I had a Horntail once – raised it from an egg. Fella in the pub sold it to me. Don’t think he knew what it was. Lovely little chap, he was. “ He sniffed mournfully. “But I couldn’t keep him here. Wouldn’t be right. He needed his own kind.”

“Know what you mean. I had a Sand-Devil when I was in college – in the desert, that was – and she was a gem. Gloria. Knew her name and everything. Only scorched me a couple of times.”

And Hagrid, who knew the species only from books, promptly invited Vas inside for tea and a dram. And a rock cake, made in his own very special way. It was a productive chat – Vas was given a tour of the grounds, and agreed to meet Hagrid at the Hog’s Head later, after classes.

###

This early in the evening, the Hog’s Head was relatively quiet, though much of the bar was occupied by the hairy bulk of Hagrid’s coat, with Hagrid inside it.

“’Ullo, Vas,” he rumbled. “Gotcha drink.”

“Hagrid, m’man!” Vas grinned, sliding into a seat beside him. The two of them exchanged a high-five, which new skill delighted Hagrid and had him beaming with pleasure.

“Meant to say before - sorry about y’broom,” Hagrid said. “Too badly busted to be fixed, huh?”

“S’okay. Hoochie’s loaned me her spare until the new one gets delivered. Hagrid, I’m told you’re the man to tell me about the Forest.”

Hagrid gave a lugubrious nod. “You don’t want to go wanderin’ around in there alone, Vas. S’dangerous.”

“So I understand. But I wasn’t exactly thinking of going in alone. JD’ll Transfigure me if I pull any more solo stunts.”

“I can show you around,” Hagrid offered immediately, his face delighted. “I can introduce you to some – friends of mine. You okay with spiders? Big spiders?””

“Spiders?” Vas grinned. “Sure. Just don’t tell JD… How big?”


	9. Incy Wincey Spider…

How big turned out to be the size of a Sherman tank. “Holy Shit…” he murmured, gazing at Aragog. Vas was standing in a gloomy and vast cobweb-hung lair, surrounded by a multitude of spiders of varying sizes,. He whistled softly. _Note to self—don’t tell JD about this, he’ll wet his pants_.

“Welcome, Hagrid. Welcome, fffriend of Hagrid,” the great spider pronounced creakily.

“Yeah, how’y’doin’?” Hagrid inquired a touch worriedly. “You’re looking a bit peaky.”

Vas shot him a glance, wondering how he could tell.

“I ffind it diffffficult to eat, Hagrid,” the spider complained. “My fffangs… I must suck my ffffood…”

“Oh, boy…” Vas was torn between fascination, pity for the aged creature, and a sneaky desire to introduce JD to it. Which would hardly be fair on either of them.

“My children fffind me fffood …small things that have much juice….”

“Brought you a brace of rabbits,” Hagrid delved into a poachers pocket. “I can mash ‘em a bit if it’d help…”

“Hagrid is kind… Hagrid is our true ffffriend….”

Vas watched the spider delicately devouring the rabbits. He couldn’t see much wrong with its fangs, himself. Long – check. Sharp – check. But, boy, that was one big mother…

“Aragog,” Hagrid said finally, “my friend here needs to know about anything different going on in the Forest. Any strangers. You know everythin’ that goes on, near enough. We need to know if any foreigners start pokin’ around.”

“Fffforeigners….” The spider repeated thoughtfully. “I will tell my children. I will rest now. Fffarewell, Hagrid. Ffarewell, fffriend of Hagrid….”

“He’s getting pretty frail these days,” Hagrid said as they left the cave. “I’ll have t’make sure he’s eatin’ right. But anythin’ happens in th’Forest, he’ll know about it.”

“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it.” But he wasn’t so sure the ancient thing would live long enough to produce the goods. He needed a back-up. “Uh, Hagrid, a Forest this big has all kind of critters, right? What’s the wolf-count?”

“Wolves,” Hagrid said thoughtfully. “Yeah, there’s at least one pack. Trouble is, they keep themselves to themselves, an’, well, they see the whole of th’Forest as theirs.”

“But they’ll have a place for the Wolf-Moot. If you can get me within howling-distance…”

“M’not sure they’ll talk to you, Vas.”

“As a human, probably not.” And he closed his eyes. Their was a faint shimmer, and a big dog-wolf, sable-coated and blue-eyed, lolled panting at Hagrid’s feet.

“Din’t know you were one of _them_,” Hagrid said, beaming happily. “Right. _Right_. If we go north and towards the mountains, there’s a hilltop you can wait on.”

Wolves are patient beasts when they need to be. In a sheltered hollow on the hilltop, Vas curled around, nose under tail, and dozed until the summer gloaming finally darkened the sky. Then, as the sun sank beneath the distant mountains, and dusk drew a purple veil over the world, he sat up, pointed his nose at the dimly-seen stars, and opened his throat in a long-drawn-out howl.

In the language of the wolves, the howl stated his position, announced him as a transient, and asked for safe passage through pack territory. He was careful to offer no challenge. There was a pause – then the howl was answered by another. Vas got up, stretched front and back, and trotted down the hill towards the Wolf-Moot.

The pack-alpha was a huge silver-grey male, his mate only slightly smaller and darker. The pack held about ten individuals, all of whom sat and stared at the interloper. Vas, well-versed in wolf-protocol, approached the leader, showing no aggression. He lowered his body, lips and ears drawn back, tail down, back arched, and offered his throat. After a moment, the leader placed jaws carefully around the dark fur, and then released, accepting the submission and agreeing truce.

_You are human._

_Yes. And a wolf-brother also. I greet you in the name of the Miakoda, the Spirit Wolf of the Moon. My pack are the Nantan Lupan. I am Kanati._

_What does a human-wolf do here in our territory?_

_I hunt. But my prey is not pack-prey. Humans who will wound the waters so that who drinks, dies._

The pack shifted, uneasy.

_When you find them, kill them,_ the alpha advised.

_First I must find them. Will you help me?_

_Can we kill them?_ This from a yearling cub, who was promptly cuffed by the alpha female.

_The Nantan Lupan have claimed the kills. I ask in brotherhood that you send me howl of any strangers you may scent._

_We can do this,_ the alpha agreed. _Where is the rest of your pack? Do you hunt alone?_

_My brother also hunts._ Vas gave them descriptions of Jon’s scent – as human, cougar, and wolf. _Grant him your aid if he needs it._

The alpha inclined his head. _Go well, Kanati. Good hunting._

Vas acknowledge the courtesy, turned tail and loped into the trees.

He stayed in wolf-shape: he could travel faster on four legs than two. Even so, it was well past midnight before he approached the edge of the Forest and changed back into human form. And in the Highlands, summer dawns came very early and he had quidditch practice to supervise in a few scant hours. He staggered up the stairs to his room in the West Tower, kicking JD’s door as he passed it, just for the hell of it.

###

"This isn't going to be the useful cover I thought it would," Vas muttered, slouching on the bench beside his partner. They were on the top row of the stands, high above the quidditch pitch, ostensibly watching the Gryffindor training session, and the Vastarnyi's scowl was no reflection on the standard of play, more due to what he considered to be the uncivilized hour. "We're hemmed in, Jansci, trapped in the school routine."

"Yes," Dexter agreed. "Which is a major part of our cover. Has Hagrid come up with anything useful?"

"Not a lot," he answered gloomily. "He's crazy about magical beasts, the scarier the better. He's fanatically loyal to Dumbledore. He's fanatically protective towards the Potter kid. He says no one has been poking around the Forbidden Forest, and if they do, he'll know about it. Hopefully before they end up dead. Hoochie's as loyal to the old coot as well, and thinks the kid is a hell of a lot better than his dad. In fact, as far as I can tell, all the staff - with the possible exception of Snape - seem to think that Dumbledore is the best thing since chocolate frogs. McGonagall is no pushover, and neither is Hoochie. Sinistra doesn't give 'em an inch, and Snape is in a league of his own. I think we can cross most of 'em off our suspect list. They're not involved with the Dragon Circle, I'm sure of it."

Dexter nodded. "I agree," he said. "So do we stick around or move on?"

"What does your hunch say?" Vas demanded, a lopsided smile growing. "Me, I can't make up my mind whether we should stay here in case the Dragoneers are trying for some of the ingredients in this area, or if we should check out Cumbria and Wales."

"I think we have to stay," Dexter said, his voice little more than a whisper. "The worst case scenario is the Tears formula ending up with Voldemort. The Dragoneers are here, and his attention is here, focused on young Harry. Sooner or later he'll get wind of it. We have to prevent that, Vas."

"Yeah." He was silent for a moment, frowning into the distance. "What do you think about that Snape guy? The kids hate his guts, and the feeling seems 100% mutual. Why the hell he ended up as a teacher beats the shit out of me."

"Dumbledore trusts him," Dexter said.

"Yeah, but do you?"

Dexter said nothing. His instincts pulled him in different directions as far as Severus Snape was concerned. Then he shrugged. "I trust you,” he said quietly. "I trust me. As always. Him, we keep an eye on."

"So we're staying." Vas gave him an affectionate grin. "I'll update VHQ. They can assign another team and we can provide a smokescreen up here, if necessary. If the Dragoneers do get suspicious and start watching us, they won't think to look out for someone else."

Jon nodded. "That'll work. Except we don't really want to draw the Dragon Circle's attention to a school full of kids."

"Yeah, well, me crashing their quidditch match kind of did that." Vas pointed out. "even if they buy the death story."

"Except they hadn't broken our cover, as far as we know. We're waaay out of our territory so the last thing they're going to suspect is a couple of Shadow Hunters nosing around. You could have been West Coast muscle, or just a too-curious solo artist out to make a fast buck. But we'll deal with that if or when. We can always draw fire away from the kids if we have to."

"Yeah."


	10. Testing The Boundaries

In Harry's opinion, he had been patient. He'd believed Professor Dexter when he'd said his reason for being there was nothing to do with Voldemort. Or rather, he believed that the Professor believed it. But Voldemort put a whole new definition on the word 'devious', and the American could well be wrong. Besides, he liked him. Liked the new Quidditch coach as well. They both had a certain unconventional streak in them that appealed to him, and it didn't hurt that Snape made no secret of the fact that he loathed both of the newcomers.

So Harry had been patient. But watchful. Vastarnyi - 'call me Vas' - was open and friendly. Cheerfully and unashamedly curious about everything and everyone within the school and the village. Professor Dexter was also friendly, but not approachable in the same way. He could be icily forbidding when someone played up in his DADA classes. He wouldn't stand for any stupidity - as Harry and Draco had found out when their on-going warfare of goading and insults flared up in their second class with him.

With hexes half muttered and wands raised, both had been on the receiving end of a freezing deluge of water.

"I will not tolerate infant-grade irresponsibility in my classroom," the Professor had said in a voice as cold as the water he'd summoned. "The next occurrence will have the perpetrators spending time with the First Years until they can act like the adults they are supposed to be. Is that clear?"

"Malfoy started it, sir!" Ron said quickly. "He - " Blue eyes like chips from a glacier had focused on him and he'd gulped to a halt.

"I am well aware of it, Mr. Weasley." Draco had smirked at that, as if he'd assumed that it was his father's name that had saved him from retribution. "Tell me, who is the bigger idiot? The one who threw down the challenge or the one who picked it up?" Draco's smirk became a flush of anger that had rivaled Harry's. "I won't be docking house points: I'll be punishing the individuals involved. All of them. So nothing will be gained by tricking your target into retaliating. Please note, this is the first and last warning I'll give you all. Keep your petty rivalries out of my classes." Professor Dexter had paused then, standing very tall and very still. There was something dangerous about him then, and to  
Harry it had felt as if the whole class was holding its collective breath. "You'll have a real war on your hands soon enough," he'd continued quietly. "When it comes you can decide then which faction you're going to fight for and either stand side by side or do your damnedest to kill each other. But until that time you will conduct yourselves like civilized human beings, not spoiled brats trying to count coup off each other. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Professor Dexter," came the muted chorus.

"Good." He'd performed drying spells on both teenagers, and the class had settled down to a discussion on battle strategies in the Grindelia War.

Ten minutes later, Crabbe had surreptitiously aimed a frog spawn hex into the mass of Hermione’s hair. She'd screamed and Ron had spun round, his wand aimed unerringly at the grinning Slytherin. Once more ice water had sluiced down from nowhere, and Ron and Crabbe were both sent on their way, soaked to the skin: Crabbe to Professor Sprout's first year Herbology, Ron to First Year Divination.

"Who wants to try for Potions and Magical Creatures?" Dexter asked mildly. "Any takers? Mr. Potter?" Harry had shuddered. The thought of what Snape would do and say to him in front of a class of First Years was enough to chill him to the bone. "Mr. Malfoy? Good. So we will return to the events of August 22nd 1944 and speculate on why Grindelwald placed the werewolf contingent on the eastern ridge...."

Talking about the strategies of various ambushes, skirmishes and set-piece battles had been fascinating, and though they were subjects that hadn't been covered in any of his previous DADA classes, Harry had very quickly got the point. Choose your ground, choose your tactics, and know the strengths and weaknesses of everyone involved, friend and foe alike. Somehow, Professor Binns and the Goblin Wars had never managed to put those factors across. But then, he was teaching history, not how to out-think a stronger opponent.

Gather intelligence and use it well. That was at the core of it. And that was exactly what Harry intended to do. Starting with Professor Dexter himself. He liked and respected the man, as he did David Vastarnyi, but they were at Hogwarts for a purpose, and after this class, he was going to find out what that purpose was.

###

“Covert surveillance, gentlemen - and ladies – is a valuable tool in the pursuit of justice.” Dexter saw Draco pantomime a yawn but chose not to comment. “In default of an Invisibility Cloak – which has its drawbacks “ and noticed that Harry went pink for some reason. Interesting. “The skills of the Animagi are routinely used. At least, under licence in the CDM. Over here, I believe the practice is severely curtailed by the Ministry of Magic. Be that as it may, it is too valuable a resource to be ignored. Mr. Vastarnyi has agreed to assist me in a demonstration.”

Vas, who had been reclining at the front, his sneakers propped on the desk, got lazily to his feet and sauntered to join him.

“What d’you want, JD?” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Dexter, watching Draco’s sneer, shrugged. His mind otherwise occupied, he made a grave error. “Be creative,” he said shortly.

Vas grinned. “Gotcha, Jansci.” There was a shimmer, and a small black and white creature stood at Dexter’s side, and rubbed its cheek against his ankle. Reflexively he jerked away.

“Good grief,” he groaned. “Vastarnyi!”

“Oh,” said Hermione, quietly appalled, “that’s a skunk!”

“Yes, Miss Granger,” Dexter said, remembering that he was supposed to be holding a class here. “You are correct. Five points to Gryffindor. Urban skunks are very common in many of the large cities in the States. As are coyotes and raccoons, as well as feral cats and dogs. The skunk has an advantage in that everyone gives it a wide berth.”

“Can’t see why,” Draco drawled. “It’s just a not very cute furry. Who’d be afraid of that?”

Hermione gave a choked snort of laughter. “I’d give it a wide berth,” she sniggered.

“And me,” said Seamus. A straggled chorus of agreement came from certain others in the class—all of them, Dexter noted, with muggle associations. The pure-bloods obviously didn’t have a clue. Then he realized that those same pupils were leaving their desks ands slowly backing away to the sides of the room. And the skunk was no longer at his side. Instead the small animal had moved forward, turned round and with lifted tail was stamping its back feet, its rear end aimed directly at Draco.

“_Vastarnyi!_” he bellowed. There was a pregnant pause, a shimmer, and the man stood there. He turned round and grinned nastily at Draco. “You’re no fun, Dexter,” he complained.

There was a collective sigh of relief and the pupils straggled back to their seats. Draco was not the only one to look puzzled, while Harry seemed downright disappointed.

Knowing it would possibly fuel the already vicious rivalry between the two, Dexter ignored him and fixed his gaze on Seamus. But before he could voice his question, Vas jumped in with both feet.

“Mr. Potter, want to tell us what would have happened if I’d been feeling bloody-minded?”

“Um,” Harry began blankly. “Skunks spray.”

“Horribly smelly liquid,” Hermione cut in enthusiastically, “and nothing can get the smell out, and it’s really vile - “

“Bit like a mudblood then,” Draco growled unwisely.

“First Year Care of Magical Creatures,” Dexter said at once, pointing to the door. “Go.”

“But - !” was all the protest Draco dared to make as he slouched towards the door.

So at the end of the class, Harry trouped out with the others, but sneaked into an alcove and fished the invisibility cloak out of his school bag. He covered himself and waited until the tall figure of the DADA Professor strode past his hideout, then followed him.

To Harry's frustration, Professor Dexter went back to the Staff Room. Harry hung around for a short while, debating whether or not to find the other American and track him. Then the matter was taken out of his hands as the Vastarnyi came towards him with his usual swaggering grace, hands gesticulating as he described what had to be a quidditch manoeuvre to Madam Hooch. Moments later the door opened and Snape swept out, followed swiftly by Professor Dexter.

There was no decision to be made now. Harry followed the two men, scurrying to keep up with their longer strides.

###

"Professor," Jon said, catching Snape's eye. "Can we talk?"

The man inclined his head slightly, his black gaze never leaving Jon's face, and waited by the Staff Room door. "I need a very large chamber," Jon continued into the silence that grew between them. "I want to start teaching the kids combat techniques."

Snape nodded. "An interesting choice of word," he said. "As in guerrilla warfare, I take it? How large?"

"As close to the size of the Hall as possible. I want to set up an urban scenario, and maybe a forest one if it'll fit."

"I see. I think you'll find that the Castle can be quite accommodating, Mr. Dexter. Come." He turned on his heel with a raptor flare of robes and swept out of the Staff Room, leaving Jon to follow in his wake.

But Jon caught him up in a few strides and kept pace at his shoulder, his own long legs matching Snape step for step. They passed Vas, who'd stood aside to let them pass, and Jon caught a glimpse of his partner's knowing grin.

"Pissing contest," the Vastarnyi muttered in Lakota.

###

There was a chamber beneath the Great Hall that matched it for width and length if not height, and the large supporting pillars would not be a drawback. Neither would the clutter of old desks, chairs and bookshelves. It looked like a disused classroom, and wasn't the first of its kind he'd discovered at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall had told him a few days ago that a generation or two back, the school had housed a far larger quota of students than it currently held.

"This is exactly what I need," Dexter said. "Thanks, Professor."

The Potions master made a sound suspiciously like a sniff of disdain. "Professor McGonagall will, I'm sure, be happy to give any assistance you may require with the necessary transfigurations." His tone of voice made it very clear that in his opinion, one Jonathan Dexter probably needed assistance in transfiguring a doughnut into a door handle. "You will also, no doubt, make sure that the place is thoroughly warded."

"That goes without saying," Dexter said scornfully. "There'll also be a safety screen between the scenario and the students. It's the way the Vigiles are trained," he added.

Snape made no comment on that. "I hear you're not taking house-points for unruly behaviour," he said instead.

"That's right. These kids don't need any more excuses to fight. The inter-house rivalry here is like something out of the muggle ghettos in the big cities back home. There it's blades and guns. Here it's hexes and curses but the potential is no less deadly."

"True." Snape was not hesitant. "What better way to ready them for the war to come?" It was said with a sneer and no regrets.

"What better way," Dexter countered, "to drive kids towards a faction they might not otherwise have chosen?"

"Exactly, Mr. Dexter," Snape purred. "For good or ill. And who is to say those poor driven little children might not regret their first choice and make another? For ill or good." The derision in that mellifluous voice sliced under Dexter's skin.

"Is that what you did?" He did not know where the question had come from, but his instinct told him it had hit hard. Not that anything showed beyond a tightening of Snape's already thinned mouth.

"Perhaps, Mr. Dexter," he said, the sibilants lengthened to an unpleasant hiss, "you are wasted teaching DADA. You should think of joining Professor Trelawney in Divinations."

Dexter winced. "Ouch," he said. "That hurt. Okay, Professor, Round One to you."

Snape stared at him, something unreadable behind the ebony eyes. "I wasn't aware we were duelling, Mr. Dexter."

"We weren't, as such. It's what my partner calls a - never mind," he added hastily as a Hufflepuff prefect edged warily into the chamber.

"No doubt you will enlighten me, Mr. Dexter, when you manage to cobble together something that might pass as coherency. Yes, Mr. Bligh. What is it?"

"The Headmaster would like to see you, sir. In his office."

Snape left without speaking, and Dexter let out a sigh of relief. He was no nearer solving the enigma of the man, and that bothered him. If he was likely to sell information to the Dragon Circle, at the very least Snape could jeopardise their operation. At the worst, they'd be dead. And then there was the Voldemort angle. Albus Dumbledore clearly trusted him, which had to count for something, but so did Dexter's own instincts, and they were as ambivalent as ever where Snape was concerned.

###

The Headmaster was in the process of putting a disreputable-looking owl out of his window when Snape entered.

"Ah, Severus," he beamed. "How is young Dexter getting along? The children seem to like him."

"It's as well this sham appointment is only for the short term," Snape said coldly. "He can't do too much damage in that time."

"Yes, I rather thought he'd be an asset." As if Snape had heaped praise on that golden head. "I've just had an owl from Aberforth. He tells me there are some suspicious-looking characters in his pub."

"And how are these different from his usual clientele?" Snape sneered.

"They have funny accents, according to Aberforth," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Foreigners."

"Headmaster, your brother's definitions of suspicious and foreign are based solely on whether or not he personally knows the person concerned. However," he added grudgingly, "it is possible they are the smugglers the Americans told us about."

"Exactly." Dumbledore sat down behind his desk and gazed benignly at his Potions Master. "Severus, I'd like you to pass on Aberforth's message and show them the way to the Hog's Head. Just keep a friendly eye on them, make sure they don't get into too much trouble."

"What? Now?" Snape was outraged. "I have essays to mark!"

"It won't take long, I'm sure. An hour at the most?"

Snape didn't have to spend time thinking about it. The sooner Dexter and Vastarnyi were out of Hogwarts the better it was for all concerned. Especially himself. If he could expedite their leaving, he would.

"Very well, Headmaster," he said and picked up the small scrap of parchment Dumbledore held out to him. "Will that be all?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Thank you, Severus. I know how much more difficult they are making your task, and I really appreciate your efforts on all our behalves."

"I'll remember that the next time the Dark Lord gifts me with a Crucio," Snape snapped as he headed for the door. "It'll make me feel so much better."


	11. Eavesdropping…

Distracted by his thoughts, Harry wasn't quick enough to slip out of the door behind Snape. It shut in his face and he did not want to risk opening it. Vigiles. What the hell was that? Or who. He struggled with the Latin, and could only come up with 'watch' as in 'vigilant'. A fat lot of good a mere watcher would be against Death Eaters and Voldemort. But Professor Dexter and Vas did not look the kind of people who would just sit on their hands and do nothing.

At the moment Dexter was walking away down the central aisle. He stopped about halfway down and took out his wand. He whispered something Harry couldn't hear and a tall bookcase against the far wall suddenly became a large refuse skip. Harry nearly fell over. It even smelled like one, and he had an immediate image of Draco Malfoy being levitated and dropped into the disgusting contents.... He watched, mesmerised, as Professor Dexter began to turn the underground chamber into something - or somewhere - else.

Ten minutes later, half of the chamber had become a back street, complete with dustbins, the odd bicycle - the skip - and a couple of parked cars. There were also some doors, a shop front, a lamp post, and a seedy cafe.

None of it was spectacular as Transfigurations went, but the sheer quantity was impressive. Harry was grinning under his cloak. This would show Snape that Professor Dexter didn't need help from anyone in that department.

As if conjured by his thought, the door opened and Snape made his customary entrance. He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Merlin!" he gasped, clamping a handful of robe over his nose and mouth, and Harry was hard put to it not to laugh aloud. "What _is_ that stench?"

"Garbage," Dexter said succinctly.

"You are supposed to be teaching the students urban warfare, not choking them with noxious fumes!"

"They'll live." Dexter raised an eyebrow at him. "And as I recall, not every potion smells of roses, Professor."

"They don't smell of rotting refuse, either. Talking of which, your quarry has possibly surfaced." He held out a small piece of parchment. "The Headmaster has just received this from his brother. Aberforth Dumbledore is the landlord of the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade."

"Funny accents?" Dexter queried. "It isn't signed."

"So? If you wish to go there, I will show you the way."

"I can find it by myself, thanks."

"That was not my instruction," Snape said smoothly. "Professor Dumbledore told me I am to show you, Mr. Dexter."

"And do you always do as the Headmaster tells you, Professor?" Dexter drawled, and Harry held his breath.

Snape's smile was a bitter grimace, made terrible by the bleakness in his eyes. "Always," he said. "To the last letter. To the last full stop. Do you wish to go now or after dinner?"

"Now," Dexter said, and this time Harry managed to nip out of the door on their heels.

###

By the time the small procession reached the gates of Hogwarts, Harry was cursing his comparatively short stature. Both men were over six feet tall and not inclined to dawdle. His shorter legs made hard work of keeping within listening distance and he had to be careful not to pant too loudly.

Snape was giving the American a quick rundown on the Hog's Head, its usual type of customer, and the eccentricities of Aberforth Dumbledore. Harry was fascinated. He learned more about the man during that walk than he had in the six years he'd been part of the Wizarding world. He wasn't sure if Hermione would find it as riveting as he did, but he knew Ron would.

The route Snape took was a roundabout one, using the back lanes. And as they went, Harry realised that Professor Dexter had altered his appearance. The smooth cap of pale blond hair was now a tousled fall of mouse-brown waves. His long coat was a shabby robe, ragged at the hem and a good six inches too short. Simple Transfiguration charms, always supposing the blond hair that was normally sleeked to Malfoy-smoothness was his natural state. As far as Harry could tell, Snape remained Snape. All he did was draw up the hood of his robe and allow the summer dust to dull the pristine black.

Then Professor Dexter went inside, while Snape waited for two or three minutes and followed him in. Some fast footwork got Harry inside before the battered door swung shut on him.

This wasn't Harry's first visit to the Hog's Head, but he'd never made a habit of coming here. The place was grimy, dark, and didn't smell particularly pleasant. There always seemed to be some very odd people lurking in corners, and there was usually at least one who shifted nervously every time the door opened.

Snape was at one end of the bar, ordering a firewhisky, Professor Dexter was at the other end drinking from a tankard. At least, he thought it was Dexter. The man looked a lot older and weather-beaten. Between them were four men huddled together, talking quietly amongst themselves. These were the strangers. Had to be. Their robes were little different than anyone else's, but what little Harry could hear was undoubtedly in American accents. He crept closer.

"....So our best bet will be to get the roots and the lichen first," a large, bulky man was saying. "Leave the gall stones till last. That's going to be kind of noticeable, when we start wasting 'em."

After years of familiarity with Dudley's favourite TV shows, Harry didn't need a translation. Murder was being planned, that was obvious. He edged a little nearer, not wanting to miss a word.

"We're going to need reinforcements before we go for the stones," another man said insistently, as if it was an old argument. "We don't know how many of them they are - "

" - Yet," interrupted the first man. He was the leader, Harry decided.

"And we don't know the exact locations of the other stuff, either," interrupted the third man. "South east heights don't cut it for me."

"It's closer than we were before," the leader said with a shrug. "We're getting closer every day since we got rid of that punk tailing us."

"Yeah, but we don't know who he was - if the Alliance is on to us - "

"We should have caught him, asked a few questions," the fourth man said with a snicker that chilled Harry's blood. "If anyone else starts asking questions, we grab 'em, yes? That way they can talk before we waste 'em."

"Should have done that last time," someone muttered snidely. "Only Dwight got a little wand-happy."

"What the shit was I supposed to do? The asshole was right there when the cloud-cover broke!"

"Forget it!" snapped the first. "We've flown over the area for days now and seen nothing. We're going to have to do a ground-search."

"On foot?" Dwight groaned. "For God's sake, Oaken!"

"That's what 'ground-search' usually means. Our main problem is going to be the wards around the school grounds. No one seems to know how far those bounds stretch, so we might be lucky and find what we want outside. If not, we'll just see if we can walk right in."

"What? Are you crazy?"

"Nope. From what I've heard from the yokels here, those wards are set against dark magic and the like. All we're doing is harvesting some roots and scraping lichen off rocks. No magic, no hostile moves against the school or the kids. So we should be able to just walk right on through."

"And if we can't?"

"Then I've got another plan," said Oaken, and Harry shivered at the gloating menace in the man's voice.

"Ground-search," Dwight said disgustedly. "Shit." He turned abruptly away from the bar. "I gotta take a p - " And cannoned into the invisible Harry.

Harry was sent sprawling across the floor, his cloak in disarray. Yells and curses, both profane and magical, followed him as he rolled frantically away from the spells that reached for him. His wand was tangled in the invisibility cloak, and Dwight had hold of his ankle. Then suddenly Snape was there, one hand grabbing his shoulder and hauling him to his feet and throwing Harry and the cloak behind him with a strength Harry did not have time to wonder at.

"Stupid child!" the Potions Master hissed, fury blazing in his face and eyes. "This place is out of bounds and you know it! Fifty points from Gryffindor! My apologies, sirs. This brat will be suitably punished, I assure you."

"Not good enough," Oaken said, grinning. "I want to know how long he was listening in on his betters."

"It most certainly is good enough," Snape sneered. "What earthly reason would he have to eavesdrop? Besides, he was still in the school when I left, in a huddle with his cronies, setting up this prank, so he hasn't been here more than a few seconds. He isn't the first to be dared by some equally moronic classmate to sneak into the Hog's Head, and I doubt he'll be the last." He reached behind him, shoving Harry towards the door without turning his back on the four men. "Out!"

Dwight tried to barge past him, snatching for Harry. He fell over, rigid as a statue with a startled expression on his face, Petrified by Snape without use of word or wand. Harry freed his wand from the cloak, and stood ready at Snape's back. Just in case. He snapped off a Jellylegs at Oaken as the man began to circle to get behind them, and followed it up with Expelliarmus to send the man's wand flying from his hand. Professor Dexter, he noticed with a painful disappointment, hadn't moved a muscle to come to his aid.

"Pack it in, lads!" Aberforth's booming voice, amplified by Sonorus, was deafening in the enclosed space. "Get him out of here, Professor, and if I see the little rat's face in here again, I'll have his guts for garters! Bloody kids," he added, muted to a grumble now. "Always trying to..." Harry lost the rest as he was bundled out of the door.

Snape didn't say a word. He had hold of Harry's shoulder again, fingers clamped tight enough to leave bruises, and Harry was half-dragged along the path at the side of the pub. Not until they were out of sight round a sharp corner did Snape release him.

"Do you have a death-wish, Potter?" he hissed. "Of all the imbecilic - why were you there?"

"A dare - " he started. Snape raised his hand as if he desperately wanted to slap him.

"Don't lie to me, you infernal brat! You were spying! Why?"

"No! I - "

"It'll have to wait," Professor Dexter said, rounding the corner with the suddenness of a jack-in-the-box. "They're looking for you. Get Harry back to the school, I'll draw them off - "

"They're going to kill someone!" Harry interrupted. "I heard them!"

"Later." There was something cold in the American's voice, and it silenced him more effectively than Snape's anger. His dusty, ragged robe now looked like Snape's, hood and all. "We'll talk later."

"Dumbledore's office," Snape said, and Dexter nodded. Then Snape grabbed Harry again, pulling him close and _twisting_ and Harry found himself sucked into a pummelling vortex. It spat him out in front of the school gates, and Snape sent him staggering through with a hard shove.

"Bloody hell!" he whimpered. "That's what it's like to Apparate?"

"You'll find out next month, Mr. Potter," Snape said. "If you live that long. Go to the Headmaster, tell him what has happened and wait for us there."

"Where are you going?" Harry demanded, standing his ground.

Snape closed his eyes momentarily, an expression of intense dislike on his harsh features. "Where do you think?" he sneered. "Hogwarts can't afford to lose another DADA instructor just yet!" and he Apparated.

Harry didn't hesitate. "_Accio_ my Firebolt!"


	12. Fire Fight

Snape Disapparated in the kitchen of the Hog's Head. Aberforth was waiting for him.

"Thought you'd be back," the inn-keeper grunted. "The last I saw of them, they were following what looked like you out past the Shrieking Shack."

Snape nodded his thanks. "I'll need a broom, Dumbledore," he said stiffly.

"Behind the door. He's a stroppy little bugger, isn't he?"

Snape did not have to ask who he was referring to. "That doesn't even begin to describe him," he said bitterly. "Believe me, if he wasn't so important to the war effort, I would have slaughtered that impertinent, unprincipled, thoughtless, archetypal Gryffindor brat within days of his arrival!" He snatched the broom from its corner and stormed out, mounting and launching himself into the air with all the speed he could muster.

Personally, right now he very much wanted to kill something - or someone - but Albus Dumbledore would not be happy if Dexter fell by the wayside, so he would have to salvage what he could from the Potter-induced situation.

###

Harry went for altitude, hovering in the sun's eye and seeking his quarry far below. He saw them on the hill above the Shrieking Shack: one man - or was it two - running fast, black robes flaring like wings, four men coursing after him, gaining slowly.

"Now would be a good time to Apparate," he muttered under his breath. Why wasn't he doing it? Surely he must have known that Snape would have got Harry to safety by now? So why - ? What would he, Harry, be thinking in his place? He remembered the last DADA lesson, and knew. Intelligence gathering, straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak. Professor Dexter was going to try to capture at least one of them. But four against one?

Harry could help make the odds a little better. Grimly he leaned forward into a steep dive, stooping from the sky like a falcon. At the same time he saw below him another broom speeding towards the scene, its rider's robes a spread of black against the green hill. Snape, flying as fast as any Chaser, approaching the four from behind. Harry grinned.

Dexter turned to face the pack, a moving, dodging, weaving predator, his wand a flickering ebony blade that seemed to carve the air as he fired a steady barrage of spells and one man dropped under his curse. Then Snape joined the fray, swooping from his broom like a great bat, and another man dropped.

Two on two were decent odds, so Harry pulled up from his dive and hovered again, watching the unfolding contest. Then instinct suddenly stabbed between his shoulder blades and he was veering away to his left before he even thought to look for the threat. Three men were plummeting out of the sun towards him and the fight below, their wands poised for attack.

Harry screeched a warning and shot up as fast as his quidditch reflexes could make it, firing an Incendarius over his shoulder. The leading broom began to burn, spiralling out of control to the ground. It struck hard, and its rider didn't immediately get up from his sprawl on the grass.

Two against four again. Harry hovered uncertainly, watching with his jaw dropping as the standard of fighting rose to another skill level. He'd been part of a Wizarding conflict once before, and found it a terrifying, confusing scrabble to survive. To watch one from above was to realise the deadly speed and grace of the two Professors, and how outclassed the opposition was. They didn't need his help. They were doing quite nicely without him and if he joined in now, he'd just weaken their attack because they'd think they'd have to watch out for him as well as battle the enemy. It was a lowering thought, and Harry contented himself with staying well above the action and keeping an eye out for anyone else looking to buy in.

Then suddenly the situation changed. Oaken yelled an order and the pack drew back, taking their fallen with them in a disorderly and bloodied retreat. Harry whooped and punched the air. Dexter scooped up a broom from the ground, Snape retrieved his own, and they were soaring to join him before Harry could think of excuses as to why he was there rather than the Headmaster's office. They hadn't got off scot-free, he saw. Their robes were scorched and slashed. Blood dripped from Dexter's wand-hand, running from a deep gash in his forearm, and there was a large burn showing charred and blistered skin on the side of his neck. Snape had cuts sliced across his right cheekbone and temple, masking half his face in blood.

"Detention, Mr. Potter," Professor Dexter said, his eyes glacial. His robes had gone back to being a long coat, and his hair was blond again, though still a wind-blown mane. "DADA classroom every evening for the rest of the week."

The glare Snape sent the American should have blasted him off his broom. "And when Professor Dexter has finished with you," he said silkily, "you'll have detention with me for the whole of the weekend. Oh, yes, and fifty points from Gryffindor. This is obviously one of your better days - one hundred points from your House in less than an hour."

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled, but even that wasn't enough to entirely dim his elation. Two had seen off seven, and if he could be even half as good as them, he'd be happy. Professor Dexter had been incredible. And Snape! He'd thought that Potions was the man's only skill. He didn't hate him any less, of course, but.... "That was - brill," he said inadequately. But he said it in a whisper and hoped he hadn't been heard.

###

Harry had wondered how they were going to get to the hospital wing and then Dumbledore's office without causing a riot. He needn't have worried. By the time they reached the castle, staff and students were in the Great Hall eating dinner. To his surprise, the two Professors headed straight for the office, marching Harry between them like a captive. Nerves and hunger made his stomach growl, and Snape flicked a scowl at him. He half-expected to get more points taken away.

Snape snapped the password and pushed him onto the rising stair. "I'll send the phoenix to the Headmaster," he said over his shoulder to Dexter as they approached the door.

"No need, Severus, no need," Dumbledore called. "Come in, my boys."

Snape rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Dexter turned what sounded like a snort of amusement into a cough.

The Headmaster wasn't alone in the office. Vas was there, lounging in an easy chair with a plate that held only cookie crumbs. The glower he bent on Dexter managed to combine hurt and disgust in equal measure.

"JD," he said, "I thought we had a deal. You don't go to parties without me. What kind of pal are you, going off having fun while I have to run around dancing with wolves?"

Dexter shrugged. "You know how it is. They forgot to stick your name on the invite. You just don't rub shoulders with the right kind of people. Next time," he went on, "I'll bring you back a doggy bag."

"Hah!"

"Good, good," Dumbledore interrupted with an indulgent smile. "Sit down, all of you. Now that David is assured Jonathan has come to no serious harm, we should get to the heart of the matter. Harry, would you care to explain why you were in the Hog's Head under an invisibility cloak?"

"Um, not really, sir. It was a - " He started to say 'dare', but found that he could not face the Headmaster's eyes and lie. "I - er - "

"Mr. Potter's eloquence never fails to amaze me," Snape drawled, lowering himself carefully into an upright chair, while Dexter perched on the arm of Vas' chair. "He was following either myself or Mr. Dexter."

Harry flushed and met Dumbledore's gaze squarely.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I wanted to know what was going on, why Professor Dexter and Mr. Vastarnyi were here. I knew Vas was the man who fell, and I thought it might be something to do with Voldemort." He saw the slight flinch Snape made and felt an obscure satisfaction that neither of the Americans reacted to the name. "I - um - was there when Professor Snape brought the note so I followed them to the inn."

"And overheard what was said at the bar," Dexter said.

"Yes, sir."

"Would you please repeat it, Harry," Dumbledore said, "word for word as well as you can remember."

Harry did so, and Dexter gave him a nod of affirmation. "I got most of it from where I was, but you've filled in a couple of gaps. But you shouldn't have been there."

"You should not," Snape said with a hiss. "But for your intervention, we might have learned a lot more."

"JD," Vas said again, a hardness in his voice that hadn't been there before. "Was your cover blown?"

"I don't think so. Professor Snape did some pretty convincing fast talking and it's probable he managed to convince them Harry had only just got there. I didn't join in at all, and they had no reason to link me with Snape. When I led them away from the inn, I'd cancelled the mask-illusion and my coat was an academic robe like his. I made a dust-shape to look like I was herding a boy away fast."

"So why did they chase after you?"

"To find out exactly how much Harry overheard, I'd say, and what it might have meant to him. Not that they'd have known who he was. Snape didn't name him while he was ripping him a new one. When they attacked me, I was just a Hogwarts teacher. They wouldn't have heard my accent to know I'm American."

"So we can salvage this," Vas said.

Dexter nodded. "Yes. As long as Harry keeps his mouth shut."

"Huh!" Snape snorted. "Obliviate the abhorrent brat!"

"Now, Severus," Dumbledore chided gently. "Don't be hasty. I'm sure Harry will be discreet. Jonathan, David, would you like to tell Harry why you're here?"

The two men looked at each other, then at Harry. Pinned by two pairs of very blue eyes, he gulped and sat a little straighter.

"We're Vigiles," Dexter said quietly, "Shadow Hunters, working for the California Department of Magic."

"That's kind of like your Aurors," Vas continued. "We've been after this gang of crooks for a while now, and when they came over the Pond, we did too."

"So why are they in Hogsmeade?" Harry asked. "What was all that about roots and lichen?"

"Don't you pay attention to anything other than quidditch?" Snape demanded caustically. "I am sure Professor Sprout has waxed lyrical about the variety and abundance of otherwise rare plants in and around the Forbidden Forest."

"Snape's right," Dexter said. "It's a lucrative trade. It's not illegal to harvest them - except the protected species, of course, but it is against the law to ship any plant into the USA without a licence."

"Plant smugglers?" Harry said doubtfully. It didn't sound like that big a deal, not like it was heroin or cocaine. There was something they weren't telling him.

"That's only the excuse," Vas said. "The tip of the iceberg, if you like. What it really is, is American crooks trying to get a toehold over here and move in."

Now that made more sense. And he could have jeopardised their counter-operation. "Oh," he said, colour high again.

"So we will keep a watch on the south-east corner of the Forest," Dumbledore said, "with the help of David's allies. Excellent. I do like a good plan. Now, Severus, Jonathan, I must insist that you go to Madame Pomfrey at once so she can tend your injuries, and I am sure David would prefer to go with you. Harry and I will sit here and eat chocolate cake and talk about the weather, and how important it is that no one outside this room learns about the - er - plant smugglers."

"As you say, Headmaster." Dexter got to his feet. "But don't forget our date, Mr .Potter. DADA room, in thirty minutes. And bring your running shoes."

###

Madam Pomfrey dealt with Dexter first, releasing him to go back to his own rooms to change out of his damaged and bloodstained clothing.

"You got a date with young Four-Eyes?" Vas commented with a smirk, following him into the tower room. "A little young for you, isn't he?"

"And entirely the wrong shape, smartass. I'm going to give him some extra tuition, disguised as Detention. The kind of hazard training we put the recruits through. I've set up an assault course."

"Cool," Vas grinned. "Can I come watch?"

"You can help out. Your unique brand of deviousness should give him a few nasty moments."

"And I love you, too." Vas told him. "How about the others? They could all use the practice."

"I've got Gryffindor and Slytherin for a double lesson tomorrow afternoon. Thought I'd pair some of them off, try to teach them teamwork, sweat out this stupid rivalry."

"That should be an interesting experiment. Who gets Beauregard? Not our sweet little Hermione..."

"Quit it, Vastarnyi. She's jail-bait."

"She's a fox. And she likes me. I can tell. She goes a real pretty pink when I smile at her."

Dexter snorted. "Paws off. Seduce Minerva, if you want a bit of excitement. She thinks you're the best thing since Houdini..."

Vas went rigid. "Shit. What time is it? I'm supposed to be meeting her down at Rosmerta's..."

"While you're sweet-talking her, sound her out about Snape. That man fights better than any Potion-pusher I've ever known, so why isn't he teaching DADA?"

"Will do." He checked his watch. "S'ok, I can give you an hour of my time and expertise before I need to be at the Three Horseshoes. But if you want to know about Snape, our little Miss Granger is a mine of information, even if it is a bit biased. He's brilliant at Potions, an evil sarcastic cruel vindictive asshole, though she didn't call him that, and a lousy teacher. He's an ex-Death Eater and he's saved Harry's life more than once. Everyone hates him - well, the students all do - but Dumbledore trusts him, and he seems to get on ok with most of the other teachers."

"And when did she tell you all this?"

"'I took her for a ride on Witherwings.. That kid is so damn smart, JD, she is going to go a looong way. If she gets through this Voldemort thing and graduates, we should recruit her."

"By which time, she'll be pushing twenty and you can move right in."

"You know me so well. C'mon, haul ass, Jansci. I want to see what kind of potential Boy-Wonder has."


	13. Hazards and Hexes

"Harry! Where on earth have you been? And what on earth have you been doing?" Hermione demanded, finding Harry sprawled in one of the common-room easy chairs. He looked completely exhausted, sweat gluing his hair to his brow, glasses still fogged. Ron stared at him in alarm.

"They caught you, didn't they? Bloody hell, Harry... What did they do?"

"I got detention from Professor Dexter," Harry said. "He and Snape grabbed me at the Hog's Head, and there was a fight - "

"Hold on a minute, mate," Ron said. "Dexter and Snape? _Fighting?_ Who won?"

"Not each other. The smugglers. He's terrific. You should have seen him. Took on dozens and wiped them out. Wham-bang! Wow...."

"But why were you in the Hog's Head in the first place?" Hermione demanded, her voice shrilling over Ron's startled 'Smugglers?'

"Plant smugglers. But it's a front. And I'd followed them with Dad's cloak. They're Vigilants. No, Vigiles. Shadow Hunters. Like Aurors." He focussed on them with difficulty. "Mustn't tell. Only the three of us."

"Got it," Ron said briskly. "What plants?"

"No," said Hermione. "Start at the beginning, Harry! You're not making any sense."

So he did. It wasn't easy. Body and mind were bruised and weary beyond endurance, but somehow he managed to keep it more or less coherent. Until he got to the detention with the DADA Professor.

"Hazard training, Vas called it," he mumbled, yawning widely. "He - Professor Dexter - he's got it set up in the chamber below the Great Hall, and he says everyone's going to have to go through it. S'like a city back street - doors and dustbins and stuff - and he and Vas were hunting me and I had to keep moving and try and pick them off, and it's like no other DADA lesson I've ever had before. It's all the kinds of stuff we should have known, could have used at the Ministry - if we had, maybe Sirius wouldn't have - " and he stopped, cleared his throat and started again. "After about an hour, he made me do it without a wand, and I had to try to keep it wordless as well. And keep moving - don't think I've ever been so knackered." His voice was beginning to slur and Ron poked him hard. "Oh, and Vas does this ricochet thing where you think the spell's missed but it just bounces and comes back at you. Want'ta watch out for that, it's sneaky..." He yawned again, even wider, and struggled to his feet, shambling for the dormitory stair. "Tell you something else, though," he added, seeing their expressions of horror, "Snape's detention isn't going to be nearly as much fun..."

###

The coming weekend was the least of Harry's concerns for the next few days. He found the double lesson of DADA was no less hard than his previous experience, and his prior introduction to it didn't stand him in good stead either. Professor Dexter had changed it around, added some rickety metal fire escapes to the walls in one of the alleys. Even without Vas there to add more mayhem to the mix, it was a taxing time for the whole class.

Nor did it help that the homework levels on other subjects reached new levels, and every evening before he could tackle them, he had to spend a couple of hours struggling to stay on his feet in the mock-combat situations Professor Dexter hurled at him. Not until Saturday and the mindless tedium of cleaning disgustingly foul cauldrons with a brush the size of an anorexic toothbrush, did Harry have a chance to really think about what he'd overheard in the Hogs Head.

Gall stones. And they seemed to be linked with murder. They were going to kill people for their gall stones? That didn't make sense.

Harry scowled. A couple of years ago one of Mrs. Figg's cronies had gone into hospital for an operation to have her gall or kidney stones removed, and that summer he'd heard far too much about it - until one of her cats had kittened and given the daft old biddy something else to talk about. Which begged the question how would the crooks know who had gall bladder problems, and why would they need to kill them when a simple hospital procedure would - But the wizarding world didn't go in for surgery, he remembered. They'd probably use a spell or a charm.... Or a potion. So what kind of potion needed gall stones?

"Get on with it, Potter," Snape growled, and Harry ducked back into the depths of the cauldron. No way was he going to ask Snape about it. But Hermione would be almost as good.

###

Harry was given a brief respite at noon: Snape sent him off to the Great Hall for lunch. Predictably enough, Ron and Hermione were there as well, planning a trip to Hogsmeade. Well, Hermione was. Ron was shovelling as much food down his neck as he could, offering her encouraging grunts as he did so. Harry slumped beside Ron and began to help himself to the varieties of quiche, salads and jacket potatoes in front of him.

"Hermione," he said quietly, adding dollops of butter to the steaming centre of his jacket potato, "What kind of potion needs human gall stones?"

Ron coughed out a strangled protest. "Bloody Hell, Harry! Not when I'm eating!"

"Human?" Hermione stared at him, eyes wide. "Nothing good, that's for sure! Why?"

Harry glanced around, but no one was paying attention to them. "Those - visitors," he whispered. "The ones I told you about. They were going to go after some, and they talked about 'wasting' people."

"I thought you said Professor Dexter said they were American crooks. Are you sure they're nothing to do with You-Know-Who?" Ron muttered, pushing his plate away.

"He might have been wrong," Harry began, and grinned at Hermione's "Never!"

"Even if he isn't, there's no guarantee You-Know-Who doesn't already know about them," Ron said, "and he might try to recruit them."

"That would be ironic," Hermione said, frowning. They stared at her blankly. "Well, wouldn't it?" she demanded. "They're over here to muscle in on our crime scenes, what's to stop him doing the same and infiltrating the Americans? If he hasn't already."

"Bloody Hell!" Ron said again. "She's right. Harry, we've got to do something!"

"No, we haven't!" Hermione snapped. "I'm quite sure Vas and Professor Dexter have it all under control! It's Draco and his sneaking around we have to worry about - concentrate on him and leave the rest alone. Look what happened the last time you butted in, Harry. You nearly blew Professor Dexter's cover - not to mention Professor Snape's."

"Him!" Ron snorted. "He's - "

"He's risking his life getting information for Dumbledore! If You-Know-Who gets to hear about how he saved Harry's neck - again! - he'll have a lot of explaining to do!"

"Yeah, well, I don't trust him! Bet you anything you like he's playing both ends against the middle."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked quietly. "I hate the man's guts, but I think he's loyal to Dumbledore."

"Think about this, then." Ron's voice was little more than a breath. "When us and the Death Eaters have gone head to head, you've polished off You-Know-Who, and the dust has settled, both sides are going to be a hell of a lot weaker than they are now. There'll be a power vacuum, all ready for Snape to step into it and take over. D'you think you could take him on and win after dealing with You-Know - ?"

"Do you think," Harry interrupted, standing up, all appetite gone, "that I'll still be alive when the dust settles? Because I don't." Choked by fury and fear and grief, he pushed away from the table and walked out of the Hall, ignoring their protests. For once, the sheer pointlessness of scouring out cauldrons - purposely fouled for his benefit cauldrons - would be a haven. Even with the acerbic presence of Snape lurking in the background.

Head down, Harry barrelled through the doors, and cannoned into a solid body heading the other way.

"Mr. Potter," drawled a familiar voice, and a hand on his shoulder steered him to one side. "Just the man I was looking for." Professor Dexter's eyes were intent on his face, and Harry put up what Occlumens barrier he could manage. Just in case. Even so, there was something disconcertingly _knowing_ about the American's gaze. Harry steeled himself. If the Professor started to gush sentimental platitudes, he'd hex him. "Dumbledore's Army," Dexter said, herding him into an alcove. A silencing spell formed an invisible curtain behind them. "The Headmaster suggests I have a quiet word with you. He'd like you to gather those DA's in the Seventh Year you trust implicitly and bring them to his study tonight at eight o'clock."

All thoughts of hexes and impending doom disappeared, replaced by a fierce optimism. At last he could do something, anything, even if it wasn't against Voldemort. "We're going after the crooks," he said, a smile growing. "Aren't we?"

"Almost right." Dexter's answering smile was wry. "Say nothing to the others, just get them there as unobtrusively as possible, okay? The password is Honey Brittles."

"Yes, sir!" The spell was dissipated with a casual flick of the Professor's fingers, and he strolled into the Great Hall. Harry headed down the dungeon stairs, struggling to keep the grin off his face.

###

Harry had plenty of time to think while head-down to his shoulders in a large metal pot, and at eight o'clock that evening, he, Ron, Hermione, Dean, Neville and Seamus gathered outside the Headmaster's door. He'd thought about bringing Ginny and Luna in as well, but since Dexter had expressedly said Seventh Year, he'd kept them out of it. As it was, the suggestion of 'a mission, possibly dangerous' was more than enough to snare the others' attention. More importantly, Draco had been kept well and truly in the dark. Nothing would be owled to Lucius Malfoy. But from now on, Harry intended to keep an invisible eye on Draco at every opportunity.

The door opened as Harry raised his hand to knock, and Dumbledore's voice invited them in. As well as Vas and Professor Dexter, Hagrid, Professor Snape and Professor Sprout were there as well: Snape looking more sour and irritable than usual, while the Head of Hufflepuff was scarlet with excitement and what looked like righteous indignation.

"Excellent," Dumbledore beamed. "Welcome, welcome. David, don't hog all the chocolate truffles, dear boy, hand them round. Make yourselves comfortable, Gryffindors, I have something to tell you and something to ask of you."

They shuffled into the room and sat in a variety of soft armchairs, and helped themselves from a large platter of heaped confectionary. Then the Headmaster recounted the Vigiles' mission, and their need to stop the smugglers in their tracks before they could set up a UK crime base of their own.

"Now, Jonathan and David have established that there are possibly seven men over here, probably more. And they are only two. Considerable though their combined skills are, they are still greatly outnumbered since they cannot call upon the backup they would normally receive in their own country. For various reasons, all of which I am in complete agreement with, they do not wish to involve the Aurors or the Ministry of Magic. So it has been suggested that certain of our older students be given the opportunity to volunteer to assist them." He held up his hand as all but Harry started talking at once, and they fell silent. "I want it understood," Dumbledore went on, sudden gravity in his voice, "that this is a very dangerous undertaking. I have only agreed it because of the impending threat from Voldemort and his Death Eaters. It breaks my heart to say it, but young as you are, you need experience in conflict - a blooding, if you will - and this is the safest way you can gain it. Hagrid and the Professors Snape and Sprout will be accompanying you as well, should you choose to join in. Those of you who are sensible enough to wish not to be involved need fear nothing. With your consent, you will be Obliviated before you leave this room. Would you like some time to discuss it among yourselves?"

"I'm in," Harry said grimly.

"Me, too," said Ron, and beside him Hermione nodded. She was pale, but her mouth was set in a stubborn line.

"Yes," said Neville, his voice rising to a squeak, and Snape rolled his eyes in disgust.

"And me," said Seamus and Dean together.

"Well done," Dumbledore said quietly. "I am so very proud of you all. Now, Jonathan and David will brief us all, then you must hold yourselves in readiness. As soon as we receive word they are moving, you will be there before them. I am certain I don't have to stress how important it is that no one outside of this room knows of this operation. It is a regrettable fact that some students send messages to parents who have unfortunate alliances. This operation, and the reasons for it, must not, under any circumstances, get to Voldemort's ears. Any questions? No? Have some more truffles...."

The word came late on the Sunday evening, and by midday on the Monday, the plan had been activated and everyone was in place.


	14. Ambush!

Dexter knew in his bones that this was the last throw of the dice as far as the Dragon Circle was concerned. They'd have to come in force, both to counter any threat and to have as many hands as possible collecting the Fiery Trefoil roots and Merlin's Lichen. Once they had those, it would be one fast strike to slaughter as many Thestrals as they could and butcher them for their gallstones, and they'd be gone. And Medusa's Tears would be that much closer to completion.

But they still had no real idea of how many Dragoneers were in the area. Seven was only an estimate.

Vas was holed up above and to the other side of the small bog-filled valley, along with Dean, Hermione and Ron. Professor Sprout, Seamus, and Neville were on the high crag that overlooked all. Hagrid and his hippogriff were somewhere to his right, far below and hidden in the dense cover of the Forest. Harry was lying at his right-hand side, pale with excitement but steady as a rock if Dexter was any judge. Comanche and Circe swung lazy circles just under the cloud cover high above them. And a few yards behind Dexter was a fifty foot drop to the lake.

While Snape was crouched behind a rock some metres away to his left. Dexter would have been happier if it was Vas over there, watching his and Harry's backs, but there were the students to watch out for, and most of them weren't even of legal age yet.

No matter. Snape had more than proved himself competent as far as skill was concerned. The jury was still out on the loyalty factor. But it had proved to be impossible to keep the kids out of it. The only way they could gain the necessary wand-power was to enlist the students. Snape had suggested it, his argument being that the Dragoneers had to be stopped and quickly, before the Dark Lord learned about the Tears, and this was the one opportunity they'd get to take out the whole gang. It made a cold kind of sense, and part of Dexter had agreed with him, but the rest of him had recoiled in horror. But Dumbledore, with a sigh of deep pain, had nodded. It wasn't as if the kids hadn't already been blooded, after all. Dexter had heard the tale of the confrontation at the Ministry of Magic a few months ago.

Professor Sprout and the group of seventh year students had been told the bare bones of it - protecting their bounds from hostile intruders, and had been given the option of helping. Which was a waste of breath. The kids were Gryffindors, after all, and any threat to her plants turned the cheerfully plump and easy-going Hufflepuff Head of House into the human equivalent of a rotund and rabid wolverine. So there they were, masquerading as a school Herbology expedition: a routine trek with Professor Sprout into the Forest, harvesting various herbs and substances along the way and taking all day about it. Just a normal field trip, folks. Until they were deep among the trees and out of sight of any watchers. Then they had made straight for this rocky height and taken their positions. Everyone else had already got there by various means: Transfiguration to their animagi forms in his and Vas' case, Harry's confiscated invisibility cloak in Snape's, while Hagrid - who'd have guessed so huge a man could move so swiftly and silently?

Now it was a question of waiting. The wind was blowing from the Forest towards him, so with a quiet word of warning to the young man, he reached for his cougar shape.

Harry made a small meep of surprise, but didn't flinch. Dexter twitched an ear at him, but gave most of his attention to the scents that flowed on the air, his mouth open and nostrils flared to extract every scrap of information. Not even the quiet "Wow...." and tentative hand stroking his furred shoulder distracted him. Yes, there was Hagrid and Witherwings - and the unmistakable tang of wolf. So the pack had decided to patrol the Forest boundary after all. No Dragoneer would escape through the trees, that was certain.

There was no way they could keep this neat and bloodless, Dexter knew. Whatever happened, the Dragoneers had to either be captured and Obliviated, or killed. _Hi, kids. Welcome to the Real World...._

###

Waiting. Harry wasn't very good at it. The sun beat down, and although he was more or less in the shade of his rock, he felt as if heatstroke was imminent. Sweat trickled down his spine. His glasses kept slipping on his nose, and his knees began to ache from the hard ground. And he was thirsty. They'd all discarded their robes - well, except Snape and Professor Sprout - and were wearing jeans. Vas and the Gryffindors were in t-shirts, Dexter had on a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He'd looked cool and crisp and unruffled. That hadn't change when he'd transfigured.

The cougar that was Professor Dexter didn't move a muscle. Not even its tail-tip twitched. Harry studied the impassive lyre-marked face of the great cat, and longed to be an Animagus.

Harry sighed, and for the tenth time he counted the small clumps of bright red and yellow flowers that bordered the marshy areas. It was a moderately pretty plant, and it's rather peppery scent tickled his nostrils so that he had to pinch his nose hard to prevent a sneeze. For all its rarity, there seemed to be plenty of it in this valley at least. The lichen, though, was singularly boring: occasional smears of silvery scabs on the tops and southern faces of boulders, the edges softened by tiny filaments. It didn't seem like much, though if the fuss Professor Sprout had made about it was anything to go by, it was rarer than gold-plated hens' teeth. Thinking about birds reminded him of the two hawks and he looked up, squinting at the sky. High above him, dark distinctive shapes wheeled slowly on the thermals, and their shrill cries came faintly to his ears.

He felt movement beside him, and fabric brushed his arm. Back in his human shape, Professor Dexter leaned closer.

"They're on their way," he said. "And they're walking in. It'll be about ten minutes before they get here."

"How do you know?" Harry asked. "How many of them are there?"

"Circe told me, and there's nine of them. They've obviously called in some reinforcements. Don't fret it," he added, smiling. "With Hagrid and Witherwings, we more than outnumber them."

"Yeah," Harry said, forcing an uncertain smile of his own. Dexter gave him a brief pat on the back and eased to his feet. Silently he moved away, and Harry watched him drift from cover to cover, pausing at each group to pass on the information. It took only a few minutes, before he was briefly at Snape's station, and then he was back at Harry's side again.

"Not long now," Dexter said. "No more talking."

Harry nodded, and watched the shadows beneath the trees.

###

For what seemed an age, Harry saw nothing unusual. He was still hot and thirsty, and he was willing to place gold on there being permanent dents in his kneecaps. Then a tree trunk seemed to move, and the figure of a man dressed in mottled brown moved a few steps away from the Forest edge. Moments later he was joined by another man, and Harry recognised Oaken.

The two men conferred, Oaken pointed up the slope to their valley, and one after another, seven more men walked out from the Forest. All of them had broomsticks strapped to their backs, and large empty-looking canvas bags slung over their shoulders. All set to harvest the lichen and the trefoil roots.

All of Harry's nervous tension fled. He was calmly patient now, focussed entirely on the group below him. His wand was ready in his hand, and he waited without impatience for Professor Dexter's signal.

In a straggling line, the men clambered up the steepening slope towards them. Just as they reached a step of granite Vas stood up.

"Vigiles!" he yelled. "Drop your wan - " and he dived back into cover as curses seared towards him.

"Drop 'em!" Hagrid bellowed, crashing out of the trees like an enraged mammoth. Beside him, Witherwings hovered, wicked beak and talons ready to attack.

"Drop your wands!" Dexter shouted, his voice enhanced by the Sonorus charm until the very rocks seemed to shake.

The men scattered, some firing curses at Hagrid - who made no attempt to avoid them, just shrugged them off as if they were nothing.

Oaken barked something, pointing his wand up at Dexter, and the top of their boulder exploded. Cut by flying slivers of rock and half deafened by charm and explosion, Harry scuttled sideways and sent a Mobilus Stratum charm that loosened the stones beneath the man's feet. Oaken staggered and half-fell, half rolled out of the way of the sliding ground.

After that the fight took on a surreal quality. On one level, Harry was aware of everyone: where they were, what they were doing. He knew when Neville covered Vas' back, when Dean threw up a shield but was knocked from his feet and fell onto jagged rocks, breaking his arm. He knew that Witherwings was hovering, preventing a couple of them from escaping on their broomsticks. He knew when Hermione had stunned Dwight but had not seen the man coming at her from behind, and that Dexter had magically lifted her attacker twenty feet in the air and dropped him, and that Snape had somehow managed to get between himself and a smuggler and fire off a flare of green that had to be the Avada Kadaver curse, though he hadn't heard the words called out. The crook had yelled out the same curse, but Snape had swept him away in emerald fire.

And then Oaken made a run for it. He pulled the broomstick from his back and swung astride it as it soared into the air, streaking away from the hippogriff. Fast as any quidditch player, he sped over their heads, avoiding the curses and hexes sent after him like a pro. But he couldn't evade Dexter.

Human muscles couldn't have done it. The cougar was a streak of sandy brown as it bounded across the hilltop and launched itself into the air. High above the lake, cat and quarry met, and the man's screech of pain and fear was all but drowned by the victory-scream of the cougar. Claws sank deep into Oaken's back and thigh, and the hurtling weight knocked him clear off the broomstick. Locked together, they plummeted into the lake and disappeared beneath the water.

Dexter surfaced in his human form, but Oaken did not reappear.

"OhmyGod!" Hermione gasped. "Help him! Vas, do something - !"

"S'okay, honey. JD can swim."

"There are grindylows in there! And a giant squid!"

"Shit!" the Vastarnyi hissed, bouncing to his feet and sticking two fingers in his mouth to whistle a two-note call. There was a flurry of wings, and the hippogriff was hovering just above - Vas snatched a handful of neckfeathers and swung astride. Witherwings gave three powerful beats, and they were above the trees, swinging out over the lake. A few beats more to gain altitude, and the hippogriff was stooping like a falcon, pulling up just above the water and banking so sharply that one wingtip grazed the wave tops. Vas, one hand still buried in feathers, leaned far down, and caught Dexter's wrist as he lunged desperately upwards.

"Don't get his feathers wet, Jansci, he doesn't like it!" he yelled over the shriek of wind.

"Like I have a choice," Dexter snarled. "Thanks, Witherwings. I owe you."

###

Dexter settled himself behind his partner as the hippogriff swung towards the cliff top. "Of course," he went on, his voice silky and cold, "I could just as easily levitated myself out of the drink. You, Vastarnyi, are a drama queen out to impress the witches. And one in particular."

Vas snickered. "Grouch," he said fondly. "Hey, didn't the kids do well?"

"Very well. They've got incredible potential. I just hope they can survive the final Voldemort clash."

"Yeah." Vas' expression became grim. "Shit, Jansci, they're only kids - "

"How old were you when you were fighting for your life?"

"That's different," he muttered. "God, you can be hard, sometimes."

"No, just a pragmatist. You did what was necessary. So will they."

"So why are you mad?"

"Because they'll have to and there's nothing we can do about it! - And I'm soaking wet!"

"You and that cat of yours have too much in common. S'no wonder you're so good at it. C'mon, let's go make like Vigiles."

"Hah!" Dexter snorted.

###

Holding his breath, Harry watched Vas and Witherwings scoop Dexter out of the water, and relaxed with a gasp as the DADA Professor settled astride the hippogriff's back.

"Oooh..." Hermione sighed.

"Needlessly dramatic," Snape said acidly. He was watching the Forest edge, Harry realised, and strained his eyes in the same direction.

"Did some of them get away?" he asked.

"Two, but they won't get far. Hagrid is in there and so are the wolves." As he spoke a chorus of wolf-voices rose from the trees, followed by screams for help - or pain. Then silence fell, and Snape's already thin mouth narrowed into a mirthless smile. "I do like a tidy ending," he murmured. Harry swallowed a rush of nausea.

Then Hagrid strode out of the Forest and climbed towards them, a body slung over one shoulder. "We got 'em," he called cheerfully. "This'n still alive, but I left t'other t'the pack."

"Very wise," Snape said.

"Yeh, S'what I thought." Hagrid's grin was very white in the depths of his beard. "I wasn't goin' t'argue wi' 'em. Are we a' right, then? What's our head-count?"

"Dean's got a broken arm," Harry answered. "Seamus got jelly-legged and scorched, but that's all"

"Those are the most serious of our injuries," Snape said. "Everyone has varying degrees of cuts and bruises, and some unpleasant burns. We were fortunate. They, on the other hand, were not. Counting the body in the lake which I trust the grindylows will return in due course, there are five dead, two seriously injured, two slightly injured and immobilized."

Harry felt sick again. Five dead. Had he killed any of them? He couldn't have, could he? He hadn't used any of the Unforgivables.

"Don't waste your concern on them, Mr. Potter," Snape said coldly, as if he had read Harry's mind. Which he probably had. "On the whole you all performed reasonably well, but I trust Mr. Dexter will be going over the operation with you and pointing out your errors." The implication being that if Dexter didn't, he would.

"Yes, sir," Harry said woodenly, and glanced across at the dripping wet American. His hair was a sodden tangle about his face, and his shirt hung in ragged tatters, clinging to his sun-browned skin. A ribbon of water-weed was draped like a chain of office about his neck and shoulders, and Hermione was gazing at him as if he was a confection in Honeyduke's window. He looked as angry as - a wet cat.

"You have the right to remain silent," Dexter was saying, his tone clipped.

Professor Sprout snorted. "Right? They don't deserve any rights! Compost the lot of 'em, that's what I'd do!"

"I'm afraid that legally they do have rights, Madam," Dexter said, scowling at the prisoners.

"Oh, go on, JD..." Vas, leaning insouciantly against the hippogriff, gave him a lopsided smile. "We got plenty. Let her have one."

"Vas, if I do that, I have to be fair and let Professor Snape disembowel one as well."

Snape gave a vulpine curl of the lip. "I certainly could find a use for eight metres of intestine..."

At which Hermione said "Eeeuwww!" and Ron, freckles standing out like saffron on dough, announced that he thought he might be sick. What the remaining Dragoneers thought, no one cared, but their terrorised expressions spoke volumes.

The Gryffindors gathered together, instinctively seeking the comfort of closeness.

"Who killed...?" Hermione began, but the words trailed off.

"Snape," said Dean. "Vas and Professor Dexter. I think Professor Sprout did for one as well, but I'm not sure."

"It all happened so bloody fast," Ron muttered. "I was scared rigid, waiting, but once it started, I didn't have time to think, just react." The others nodded in mutual agreement. "But we did it. You heard Snape - 'moderately well' - which coming from him has to mean we were bloody brilliant. We won't be a pushover when You-Know-Who starts trouble."

"No, you won't," Vas said quietly, dropping his arms across Hermione's and Harry's shoulders. "You guys did great. But you gotta keep on practicing. Good instincts, fast reactions and plain dumb luck aren't enough for the long haul - " He stopped talking, eyes suddenly fastening on Snape. Who was hunched over in obvious pain, clutching his forearm to his chest. "Hey, you're hurt? You should have said - "

"No!" Snape bit out the word, straightening with a jerk. "I'm perfectly all right!"

Harry stared at him, knowing in his gut what was happening: Snape's Dark Mark had come alive, summoning him. Why now? Did Voldemort already know about the fight in the little valley? The Professor's black gaze locked with his, and Harry didn't have to guess at the bitter resentment Snape was feeling. He could see it.

So could Professor Dexter, it seemed, because he came to stand between Harry and Snape. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Snape answered, glaring at him. "Are we going to stand here for the rest of the day engaging in social chitchat, or are you going to transport this foreign rabble to secure accommodation?"

"What about the - um - bodies?" Neville asked diffidently.

"Don't worry about them," Hagrid said brightly. "We'll just leave 'em to the Forest, I 'xpect."

"Huh," Professor Sprout snorted. "Compost!"

"Yeh. Probably. Leave it t'me, Professors. I'll tidy up here. You get the kids an' them plant smugglers back t'Hogwarts."

"The smugglers are your responsibility, Mr. Dexter, Mr. Varstarnyi," Snape announced. "I will assist you. But first Professor Sprout and I will tend the students' injuries. While we're doing that, you can consider how you are going to get five men, three of whom are injured, back to Hogwarts without being seen."


	15. Marking Time

The Dark Mark flared pain once more as Snape got back to his private quarters. Voldemort was becoming impatient. Quickly he changed out of his battle-damaged robes and hurried away from the school, grimly resigned to paying the inevitable price for keeping the monster waiting. The reason for the peremptory summons was another concern. It might be just a follow-up from his last summons, or something that one of his Slytherin students had passed on to a parent - and there was one prime suspect for that role. But there might be a darker reason. If the Dark Lord had finally learned about Medusa's Tears, both the muggle and the wizarding world were facing a terrible future. On the other hand, to research and refine that incredibly difficult potion - He could do it, he knew he could, and wanted to with a deep passion. But the price was one he was not prepared to pay.

Rage and resentment scorched through him, negating the burn of the Mark. Damn Dumbledore and the Dark Lord both for putting him in impossible situations. There was little to choose between the two as far as Snape was concerned.

All he wanted out of life was to be left alone! Was that too much to ask?

Snape took his simmering anger and buried it deep beneath an Occlumens' barrier Voldemort himself had not yet broken, and passed through the gates. He Apparated, and as usual, the activated Mark took him to wherever Voldemort waited.

There were times when it was not good to try the Dark Lord's tolerance. When it suited him, he could be as patient as a rock in the rain. This was not one of those times, and Snape was greeted with one word: "_Crucio!_"

When the flaring agony had let go of his nerve ends and he could draw a shuddering breath into his starved lungs, Snape climbed shakily to his feet, half-expecting an inquisition on Medusa's Tears.

But it wasn't the Tears that were exercising the Dark Lord's thoughts.

"Severus," said Voldemort, clearly relishing the sibilants. "It has come to my attention that the new DADA teacher has sent up some kind of assault course for the students."

"Yes, my Lord," Snape said. "He - "

"This will not continue. I want it stopped, Severus. Immediately."

"Yes, my Lord. I'll see to it as soon as I return." And he would. If Dumbledore wanted him to remain effective, the Headmaster would have no choice but to give up that so very useful chamber. With any luck, the Potter brat would have the initiative to recreate it in the Room of Requirement and carry on, regardless of who the next DADA Professor might be.

"Make no mistake, Severus. I want it stopped!"

"It will be, my Lord. I'll arrange an accident - an injured student - " For a brief moment he indulged himself with an image of the Potter brat writhing in anguish. "The Headmaster will insist on terminating it."

"And the Americans? What more have you discovered on them?"

"That they are possibly part of a petty crime cartel attempting to gain a toe-hold in this country."

"I won't tolerate that!"

"No, my Lord. As soon as I can ascertain their number and purpose, I will return them in such a way that a clear message will be sent to their masters."

"Excellent, Severus. In due time I will turn my attention to the New World. It will be useful if they have prior knowledge of my supremacy. They will be less inclined to contend with me."

"I swear to you, my Lord," Snape said with heartfelt conviction, "that if I have anything to do with it, no one in the wizarding world, here or over there, will ever doubt the extent of your power."

Voldemort's response was an exultant and not quite sane chuckle, and he waved him away with an obscenely graceful hand. "Go back to Hogwarts, my most devious Ulysses. Continue to serve me well, and I will reward you fittingly."

Head down, spine in a sycophantic curve, Snape backed away from the Dark Lord's presence, thankful to be able to extricate himself without earning another Crucio.

###

By Monday evening, the injured Dragoneers had been doctored by Madam Pomfrey and held in a multi-warded room in the hospital wing, their presence in the school hidden by wards and spells. Dexter and Vastarnyi had questioned them: doses of Veritaserum all round had made it clear that the men had no idea why the lichen, roots and gall stones were needed, only that some clients were willing to pay substantial sums of money for them.

Now there were only the loose ends to tie up, and Dexter found himself curiously reluctant to do it. The all too brief time at the school had shown him something. He'd never before given thought to what might lie ahead of him as far as a future career was concerned. He'd had vague ideas of climbing the promotion ladder, until he'd discovered the political morass he'd have to wade through. But to teach.... He looked around the empty DADA classroom. Yes. He could do that. Maybe even at Hogwarts itself. And Vas - well, he'd be a natural at Charms or Transfigurations, not to mention Care of Magical Creatures. If ever a couple of vacancies came up -

"This has been most interesting," Dumbledore said, standing in the doorway. "And I must thank you both for keeping the children from too great a harm."

"They pulled their weight, Headmaster."

"I never doubted that. This experience will stand them in good stead in the regrettably near future."

Dexter nodded. There wasn't a lot he could say to that. Vas appeared at Dumbledore's shoulder, and lounged against the doorframe.

"Wish we could stick around," Vas said quietly. "Help out. But - " he broke off and shrugged. "We gotta get back home with those lowlifes."

"Yes." The Headmaster's pale blue eyes sparkled behind the small lenses of his spectacles, and his white beard parted in a wide smile. "You must keep in touch, my dear boys. And who knows? Perhaps you will return one day. Now, I'll let you get on. I'm sure you have a lot of planning to do."

Vas watched the old man out of sight, then wandered into the room. "So how's it going?" he asked. "Think we'll be here for another week or so?"

Dexter stared at him, an eyebrow raised. "A hell of a lot sooner than that," he said.

"Oh. Okay. Saturday?"

There was an unmistakable wheedle in his partner's voice, and Dexter frowned. Given that there were five prisoners to be shipped out, a delay was just not feasible. Admittedly the more severely injured ones would be better off with a delay, but he was not a humanitarian social worker. He was a Vigiles.

"I'm booking us tickets on the first flight out of Glasgow," Dexter said. "We'll pick up a connecting flight at Heathrow and be home in time for a late dinner."

Vas stared at him in horror. "We can't go yet!"

"What? Why not?"

"It's the Quidditch House Final! Day after tomorrow!" And when Dexter's right eyebrow twitched upward, Vas elaborated. "C'mon, JD! I owe it to the kids! To the teams!" He wasn't getting anywhere. The left eyebrow twitched. "We owe it to Hogwarts!" he finished with the inspiration born of desperation.

There was a pause, while the ice-blue gaze fixed him like an insect to a board, dissected him, and disposed of the bits. "Three days, then. We leave the day after the final. Okay?"

"You're a prince, JD. " Vas gave him a quick hug. "I'll go give Hoochie the good news."

Dexter let him go. The extra time would be useful - the amount of bureaucratic paperwork involved in extraditing the Dragoneers from the United Kingdom to the USA using Muggle commercial airlines was a headache.


	16. A Final In More Ways Than One

Vas lay on his back on the fragrant grass and counted the stars appearing in the evening sky. At the same time he was reviewing certain matters in his head. The job was over. Wrapped up. It was now just a question of port-keying to a place just outside Glasgow Airport, and then they'd be on their way. There weren't any loose ends left.

But.

Jonno still had a lot of suspicions about Snape. The guy was far from being a slouch in the Dark Arts department, and from what he'd seen during the fire-fight up in that little valley, Snape was an adept at wandless and wordless magic as well. While not exactly rare talents, they were always the mark of a particularly powerful wizard or witch. Most of the kids - those that weren't Slytherin - hated him, did not trust him. The kids were smart.

Snape was a Potions Master in more ways than one: had to be the equivalent of a Primus Dominus back home. So maybe he knew just enough about Medusa's Tears to attempt to refine the potion himself?

Vas scowled. He could see Snape experimenting for the sheer hell of it, for the challenge and because he was hooked on potion-work. But what the hell would he do with it once he'd perfected it? If he could perfect it? Sell it to the highest bidder? Set himself up as some kind of criminal mastermind?

Or simply tick it off a trophy list and forget about it?

Ex-Death Eater, Hermione had said, and old Dumbledore, who wasn't nearly as crazy as he chose to look, trusted the sour-faced bastard. How ex was the ex? Wouldn't be the first time a supposedly faithful colleague had been batting for the opposition. With the Shadow Hunters out of the way, Snape could have fun playing with his potions, while Voldy had the name of the Dragon Circle.

"Shit!" he groaned, and rolled over to bury his head in his arms. "Shitshitshit." He needed to talk to JD about his. Maybe they should just call in some of the guys to collect the Alliance creeps while he and Jon stayed around for a while longer to make sure Snape wasn't hand in glove with Voldy.

Then there was Draco Malfoy. Young Beauregard had been following him, Vas, around at every opportunity, trying to be inconspicuous about it, which was not so easy with hair that pale. Kind of stood out like a beacon, as Jonno had long since found out to his cost. Slytherin spying. Vas smiled into his forearm. But the smile soon faded.

What was with the arm-clutching Snape was doing after the fight? He wasn't hurt, but he'd taken off like a bat out of hell when they'd got back to the castle and no one knew where he'd gone or why. He'd turned up in the Hall for breakfast the next morning, no explanation given or asked for, which was - odd. The Dark Mark was a magical brand seared into the forearm, that much he knew. It could be triggered by the one who implanted it, a silent hint that the wearer was required to be elsewhere. Severus Snape had been summoned by Voldemort?

"Shit!" he said again. This was something he needed to take to Dumbledore as well as Jon - and then he saw the vague shape of a tall, thin man flitting from cover to cover towards the gates, a blacker shadow in the deepening night. Snape, on the move again, and obviously trying not to be seen.

His decision was made in a split second. Vas signalled Comanche to him, and sent the hawk off with a message to Jon, then ghosted along the Potion Master's trail.

The gates opened silently, making a gap narrow enough for a skinny man to slip through. Vas crouched behind one of the support pillars and peered cautiously round. Snape stood in the road, a vampiric silhouette in the moonlight, looking over his shoulder suspiciously. His wand was in his hand, and the pallor of his features was heightened by the meagre illumination. Vas held his breath. Then Snape turned on his heel and Apparated.

Vas moved away from his shelter and stood in the road where Snape had disappeared. Okay, the man could have been going to a moonlit dinner for two in some romantic assignation. He could be going to play poker in Hogsmeade. If they played poker in that strangely archaic little village. But why sneak? Something was very wrong -

He heard a footfall behind him but before he could turn a voice hissed “Retarius!” and he found himself tangled in a thick, sticky web – something dark closed over his head, and the sickening, stomach-churning sensation of an Apparate momentarily disoriented him. When he had fought free of the hoodwink, he found himself on his knees in a cavernous hall where a dark-robed figure sat at ease on a throne, corpse-white fingers cradling a pointed chin, and eyes that glowed scarlet regarded him as if he was a bug. “Petrificus Totalus,” it hissed, and Vas was paralysed where he knelt. “Incarcerus.” And the web was replaced by ropes.

He did not need an introduction to know who he faced, and terror ran ice down his spine. He could smell the power in this room, and it put everything else he had ever faced in the shade. To disguise his fear, he took stock of the others present – and there was Snape, clearly an ally of the thing on the throne, looking even more dyspeptic than usual, and his captor, a tall, silver-haired man with a permanent sneer, who reminded him of Dexter Snr. in a serious snit.

“What is this?” Voldemort demanded breathily.

“A spy, my Lord. One of the two who have inveigled their way into the school. My son Draco has told me - “

_This was Beauregard’s dad?_ Vas felt dizzy. _How far did the rot go? Dumbledore _trusted_ Snape. Malfoy Snr. was something big in the Ministry of Magic. As conspiracy theories went, this was a biggie. Who next? Dubya?_

“A spy? For whom?” And Vas felt the silky touch of Legilimens and threw up his own Occlumens defence, horribly aware that against power like this it was about as useful as a wet paper bag. “Severus, you told me that this creature was dead.”

“So I believed, my Lord.” Snape’s response was tinged with intense dislike.

“But you were wrong. I shall deal with you later. For now…” One thin hand caressed the head of a great serpent that had coiled itself around the throne. And Vas, an avid devotee of muggle-culture, couldn’t help himself. This caricature of an arch-villain belonged on the big screen, planning world-domination while petting a white cat.

“Aha, Mr. Bond…” It came out falsetto, almost as a giggle. The ruby eyes fixed him.

“And who is this Mr. Bond of whom you speak?”

“No one you’d know,” Vas said, feeling even more light-headed. “You just gotta realise, Voldy, you’re really not the biggest, baddest bogey on the block…”

“_Voldy!?_” It was a asthmatic wheeze of fury. “Y_ou dare..?! Take him out and kill him! Now!_”

“My Lord – “ it was Snape. “Please do not be hasty. Surely there is much we can learn – a dose of Veritaserum –“

“Then be swift! Or Nagini will be angry if you delay her snack. You will not want Nagini to be angry with you…”

“Merlin’s Balls, Severus, no – you _really_ wouldn’t like her when she’s angry…” Vas rolled his eyes at Snape, who curled a lip. The coils of rope held his arms clamped to his sides, but who needed hands? _Perhaps the earthquake thing again? No, JD would kick up a fuss. Probably piss Dumbledore off, too._ Snape had drawn a phial from his sleeve, and advanced on him.

“I will administer the Veritaserum, my Lord. Then you may question him at your pleasure.” He tangled his fingers in Vastarnyi’s hair, dragging his head back – and as he bent towards him, hissed in his ear. “_This is not the potion, but if you are wise, you will act as if it is. And be creative. You must buy me time if you want to live._”

Vastarnyi, in shock, swallowed the stuff reflexively, grimacing at the taste. The crimson eyes fixed him as a snake fixes a rabbit.

“Speak,” Voldemort commanded. “And maybe I shall be merciful and have you killed _before_ Nagini dines on your flesh. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

_Be creative._ “Name’s Dillon. Marshall Dillon. I’m a advance scout for the South-Western Alliance, out of Colorado. We control all unlicensed magic – arrange heists, assassinations, that kinda thing. The bosses think it’s time we broadened our operation into Europe.”

“And you were not the man who fell?”

“I had a tail, your Lordship. Some law officer got too close. I had to ice him.” He was aware that he was starting to sound like a bad gangster movie, but hoped Voldemort was far enough out of touch that he wouldn’t realise.

“Then who is the other American? Another of your cadre? Tell me of this Alliance.”

Vas dredged up every conspiracy theory he had ever heard off, garnished it with the plots of some of the wilder spy-stories, and threw in the CIA, NSA and FBI for good measure. As Voldemort had never heard of either organisation, that also took some explaining, and astonishingly Malfoy Snr. was nodding agreement.

“The Ministry has long been aware of attempts at infiltration by what the muggles laughing call their Secret Services, my Lord. I doubt they will prove any obstacle to you.”

“The Mafia would certainly give you some trouble, though,” Vas went on. “Not so long ago they took down an American President, with our help. They are mean mothers, I am telling you.” He prepared to offer the plots of Godfathers I, II, & III to muddy the waters further.

“I have heard of this group, Dark Lord,” Snape said. “They are Sicilian in origin, Strigoi, and powerful. You could maybe employ this spy to make contact with them…?”

“Why would I wish to do that, Severus? Do you think I need the services of some third-rate party?”

“My Lord…” But Snape was interrupted by a thunderous explosion, and a choking cloud of smoke and dust filled the chamber. “Treachery!” Snape shouted. “My Lord, you are betrayed! Malfoy, you fool, you have brought the Order down on us!”

Voldemort uttered a kind of horrible high-pitched whine – a shaft of crimson light shot out from his wand, impacting Vas squarely on the chest. “_Crucio!_” the Dark Lord shrieked.

###

Harry's resolve to tail Draco everywhere would have been severely curtailed if Snape - with considerable bad grace - hadn't given him back the invisibility cloak the day of the quidditch match. Since then he'd watched Draco watching Vas, and ignored Ron's increasingly irritable suggestions that he should get a life.

So it was that on a certain evening, a few days after the arrest of the crooks, Harry was shadowing Draco shadowing Vas shadowing Snape across the school grounds towards the gate. Trapped by his invisibility, he watched Snape disappear, saw Vas walk into the road, and suddenly become entangled in a magical net. He heard Draco's crow of triumph, and Harry, concealed in the Cloak, watched helplessly as Vas and Malfoy Snr. vanished. Then he turned tail and sprinted back towards the school. He was taking the stairs two at a time when he nearly cannoned into Professor McGonagall, who caught him out of reflex.

“Got to tell the Headmaster!” he panted. “Draco’s father – he took Vas – Mr. Vastarnyi – they - “

“We know, Potter,” she said sharply. “The Order of the Phoenix have been alerted. The Headmaster is unavailable – but Hagrid and I, together with Aberforth and Professor Dexter, will be able to cope, I am sure. Best if you go to your - “

“I can help,” Harry said recklessly. “Anyway, even if you say not, I’ll follow you. Please, Professor!“

Gimlet-sharp eyes behind the glasses regarded him – and softened a little. “Very well, Harry,” she said. “But you must follow orders. No arguments. Understood?”

As he nodded, Professor Dexter came down the stairs. Harry had never seen anyone looking more furious.

“I know,” he said sharply, as Harry opened his mouth. “Vas was able to warn me. Minerva, I should be able to pick up his magic signature – we can track him that way, so long as no one has Obliviated or Confunded him. Harry, show me where you saw Vas last.”

“Just outside our gates,” Harry said, trying to keep up as the man’s long strides took him out of the castle. Hagrid joined them in the grounds, when they reached the village, Aberforth was waiting for them.

Dexter paused – assumed his cougar shape. It paced in a circle, clearly scenting the air, lips drawn back and mouth open – then it bounded towards the Hog’s Head. It lead the way down the stairs to the cellars, and onward, through a labyrinth of tunnels. It was impossible to sure of direction or distance, but Harry thought they were heading south away from Hogsmeade. There was nothing out there but wild hillside and a couple of deserted farms.

Finally the cougar was brought up short. It halted in front of a stone wall and reared up, paws on the stone, and yowled frustration.

“Yes,” McGonagall said tersely. “I feel it too. An illusion. Aberforth?”

The innkeeper shook his head. “I’ve never explored this far, Minerva. But it looks as if this wall’s always been there.”

The cougar shimmered and became Dexter. “It’s an illusion, all right, but a brilliant one.” He drew his wand. “Finite.”

Nothing happened. Then four wands were focussing all their power on the wall, and it began to shred. Behind it was a heavy door, hinged and bracketed in metal.

“Alohomora!” McGonagall commanded. The door resisted. “Alohomora!” Nothing.

Dexter closed his eyes, pointed his wand at the door, and whispered “Relashio ferox!”. A beam of searing incandescent light struck the hinges, which began to spark and smoke and turn redhot, then white and finally melt – the door creaked, then, ponderously, fell forward. Behind it was utter darkness. “Lumos.” Dexter commanded, and led the way into it, the tip of his wand glowing like a small sun.

Harry, on his heels, felt a lance of pain shoot through his scar. He clapped a hand to it out of reflex, and Professor McGonagall shot him a glance. “Harry?”

“Voldemort…” he gasped. “He’s close. He’s … angry…”

“I’ll bet,” Dexter said, with a choke of what could have been laughter. “He’s got the Bohunk to deal with. Minerva, are you ready? Guys?” And he pointed his wand forward. “Facia Via!” he shouted – and the darkness divided, leaving a clear path towards another blank wall. “I really have had enough of this crap,” he muttered, and Harry felt him gather power, compress it into a ball, and hurl it at the wall. Which exploded in a billow of dust and smoke – and over the tumult rose a scream.

Dexter was the cougar again, racing into the chamber beyond, with Hagrid roaring behind him, Aberforth and McGonagall and Harry only a pace behind. It was impossible to see properly, but Harry trusted to instinct, firing off stupefying hexes at anything that moved, and by the time the air had cleared, McGonagall was supporting a distinctly shaken Vastarnyi, Lucius Malfoy was face-down, flat on the floor with an irate cougar straddling on his back and snarling, and six stunned Death-Eaters were being disarmed and spell-bound by Hagrid and Aberforth. There was no sign of Voldemort.

“They took off as soon as you guys showed,” Vas said. His mouth was bloody where he’d bitten through his lower lip. Harry, having been on the receiving end of the Dark Lord’s Crucio himself, knew how he must be feeling. “Voldy, and a little weaselly kinda guy…”

“Pettigrew,” McGonagall nodded.

“…and Snape.” Vas looked stunned and sick. “I thought he was one of them. But he gave me a dose of faked Veritaserum. To buy time, he said. I can’t make him out. Dumbledore trusts him…”

“Severus is by way of being a double agent,” McGonagall said. “David, you’re in shock. I’ll Apparate you back to Hogwarts, and get you to the infirmary.”

And that was that - it was all over bar the shouting. Lucius Malfoy was taken away to Azkaban, Draco showed a bemused face to the world and denied any knowledge of what was going on, and Snape showed up for breakfast the next morning as if nothing had happened. None of the teachers would talk about the events, and Harry didn't get a chance to say anything to Vas or Professor Dexter before they disappeared from the school.

Professor Dumbledore made a brief announcement in the Great Hall, explaining that both men were Vigiles from America, here to break up a crime ring, and they had left following the successful conclusion of their operation.

It may have been successful for them, but for Harry it was an anti-climax. He felt as if he was back in Limbo again, oddly isolated from the world and helpless. He went down to the chamber below the Great Hall, and found it exactly as it had been before Professor Dexter had started his Transfigurations. It was depressing. For a moment he had been part of the action, able to be an effective part of a skilled and effective team.

Now he was back to square one: waiting.

Waiting for Voldemort to try to kill him so he could kill first.

Waiting.

Harry wasn't very good at it.

THE END


End file.
